Logs:Hunger

Hunger
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Matt
In Absentia	2019-03-12 "I am not afraid of you."
Location Village Lofts - Rooftop
It tends to be windy, up here, but the presence of plastic table and folding chairs suggests that nevertheless building residents occasionally make their way out to this rooftop. With a good view of Tompkins Square Park less than a block away it's a good spot for city-watching. There's a railing around the edge, though it might be possible (if unwise) to climb over it to the narrow concrete ledges beyond and from there to the fire escape. Centrally, someone has broken down crates and constructed a small raised-bed garden up here, barren in winter but filled in three other seasons with a small assortment of herbs and vegetables. Down in Geekhaus, the weekly game night is still in full and raucous swing, but one geek in attendance has slipped quietly away and wended his way up the stairs to the roof. Matt probably looks underdressed for the weather to most eyes, his green-and-gray softshell jacket not even zipped up over a black t-shirt with an image of Coyote from Gunnerkrigg Court, old blue jeans worn through at the cuffs, ancient brown hiking boots. He carries a slim silver thermos in one hand, and his hair is a tousled mess that isn't much improved or harmed by the gusts of icy wind. The roof is quiet, though not deserted. Crouched on the rooftop guardrail, wings partly mantled, one hand resting on the railing between his feet; silhouetted against the nighttime city lights there's more than a little semblance of gargoyle about Dusk's posture. Maybe less so given most gargoyles aren't sculpted in beaten-up old Vans, soft brown corduroys, a maroon Sunnydale High zip-up hoodie unzipped over a black waffle-weave long-sleeve tee. He has his other arm slung over his knee, a hand-rolled cigarette, half-burned, dangling between two fingers. Matt's normally quiet steps scuff on the rooftop as he crosses to the railing on which Dusk is perched. He rests his elbows against it, a few steps down from his friend though in easy wing-reach. "It may interest you to know," he says conversationally, "that we /almost/ stopped Shub-Niggurath from devouring the world. Not sure that was any consolation to those devoured." He pops the cap on his thermos, takes a sip, and holds it out to Dusk. Dusk doesn't look up as Matt approaches, but one wing stretches briefly to touch lightly against Matt's shoulder before curling back in. "But that feeling of hope." He brings the cigarette to his mouth, takes a long pull. His head just shakes at the offered thermos. "It gives the investigators an extra tang as they're going down." Matt leans into the press of Dusk's wing. "The madness gives them a nice kick, too. We had /plenty/ of that to go around." He snaps the lid of the thermos shut and doesn't speak for almost a minute. There's no uncomfortable sense, though, that's he's been holding the question back when he says, "How are you holding up?" Turning in place slightly, he waggles his fingers in the direction of Dusk's cigarette. Dusk flicks ash from the end of his cigarette, his eyes fixed out on the park across the street. "S'the last of my tobacco." And rapidly dwindling, as he takes another drag. "Games can't be over yet, are they?" "Not even close." Matt returns his hand to the railing. Props his head kind of sidewise on the same shoulder that bears the greater share of his weight, studying Dusk. "You want we can go pick up more. Nice night for a walk." The wind howls as if to voice its agreement. Dusk's wings curl in close against his shoulders. His sharp lower claws brace against the wall. "Maaan, you drunk? It's a shit night for a walk." Matt seems to stop and actually /consider/ the question. Not for very /long/, though. "Nope. Pretty much sober, just..." He gives a one-shouldered shrug. "...Canadian. It's less windy down there, though." He leans farther over the railing, peering down as if he can /see/ the difference in wind chill. "Dusk. How long has it been?" Dusk's claws scrape against the wall. A soft growl rumbles in his chest -- even while at the same time his reply comes prompt and light: "I was drunk just this morning." "That's fine, and if you want to get drunk again it can be arranged," Matt says evenly. "But I meant blood." He pulls his phone from his pocket and opens his calendar app momentarily. "It's been a good while since I last gave, and I'm almost up again. If you're concerned about control--I can draw it myself, out of your sight." "I'm -- it hasn't been -- /that/ long." Dusk mashes the stub end of his cigarette against the concrete wall and lifts his hand -- almost set to flick the butt down onto the sidewalk far below. He catches himself, though, and instead unfurls himself to hop backwards off the wall. Toss it at a nearby trashcan. The growling deepens when it bounces off the side of the can onto the rooftop. "Don't you have games to be playing?" He's turned to look at Matt, finally, a slight shiver in his shoulders as he wraps his arms around his chest. Matt's eyebrows lift up fractionally. "Dusk." There's a faint note of pleading in this. He turns around to face his friend, back to the railing now, both elbows still braced against it. "There /are/ more important things than games. Blasphemy, I know." Though his posture remains casual and his face a study in fond if frustrated concern, his pulse has been beating steadily faster, and starts racing when Dusk finally faces him. "If you tell me you don't need it--don't want it? I'll let you be. But /I/--" Dusk's snarl here cuts into the tail end of Matt's words, rough and rasping. His teeth have bared, a tremor rippling through his wings as his eyes fix -- just below Matt's face. His breathing has accelerated, somewhere around the same time Matt's pulse does. "/Want/ it? Christ, Matt, how can you --" He's taken a reflexive step in towards Matt, wings snapping abruptly wider to pin against the wall to either side of Matt. His words come out in a growl, this time not just because of the rumble that's still layered under them. Even as soon as he speaks -- moves -- there's a chagrin cutting into the severity of his expression. It takes a deliberate and visible struggle for him to start letting go of the tension in his muscles, unhook his claws from the concrete, gradually start pulling back his taut-held wings. His teeth are still clenched, bared, though, when his eyes drop, one hand lifting in a fist to circle against his heart. Even Matt's finely honed sang froid almost deserts him when the wings of a snarling, ravenous vampire surround him. But it holds, if only just, and he straightens up from his slouch with a casual languid grace. His pupils have practically swallowed up the bright green of his irises, but his gaze is steady when he meet's Dusk's. His heart rate, though, he cannot hide--a furiously rapid flutter. "Désolé," he says softly. "I do know it isn't so simple, even if I /cannot/ know just how complicated it must in fact be." Notwithstanding the calm confidence of those words, there's the slightest hesitation when he reaches out for Dusk's thumb-claw, still coated with concrete dust, and hooks his hand beneath it. "/I/ want it. That's not simple, either. But it's true." He tugs very gently on the other man's wing, as if leading an uncertain dance partner, though he could not have contended with Dusk's strength even with all of his own. "I trust you." The rumbling growl fades into a soft and unhappy whine. Dusk's wing trembles against Matt's hand; his arms are wrapped very tightly against his chest. "Fuck," he says, low and rough, and then, lower still, a hitch in the words as Matt tugs at him, "fuck you." Against his physical strength the gentle tug may not normally have had much effect but today he crumples at it, stumbling forward toward Matt. His wing curls up around Matt's arm, bracing it and pulling it closer. The low thrum in his chest starts back up as he lowers his head, teeth sinking into the radial artery with a sharp stab of pain that's followed swiftly by a heady rush of euphoria. Matt brings his other arm up to steady Dusk when he stumbles, and does not flinch at the pain of the bite. He /does/ flinch at the sudden clang when the thermos slips from his hand and falls to the ground, but this alarm is short-lived, gone with a soft exhalation. His pulse gradually returns to something like a reasonable rate, though still fast, and he leans more and more of his weight against his friend. "You are not your hunger." This is quiet, but clearly and carefully enunciated--only impressive in the context of his heavily altered state. His free hand trails a light caress over Dusk's hair, down the back of his neck, kneading harder between the base of his wings. The casual affection of the touch forms a striking contrast to the deliberate weight of Matt's words. "And I am not afraid of you." The soft words and soft touches are answered with a more vicious dig of teeth, a harsher growl. For a time there is only this, Dusk's mouth pressed firm to Matt's arm as the buzzing-dizzy rush heightens. His other wing curls in around Matt, timely in its support as a fluttery pull of muscle weakness works its way into the mix. "Or...if you are..." Matt sounds /somewhat/ less clear now, between the effects of the venom, the blood loss, and -- consequently -- his head droopping to rest on top of Dusk's, yet still oddly focused. "...I embrace that, also. Fear and all. /Oh/--" The gasp comes in time with his hand closing tight around a fistful of Dusk's hoodie and not a small amount of flesh from between his shoulder blades, grip convulsive even as his strength starts to ebb. He's begun trembling, too, though this eases once he collapses into warmth of Dusk's enfolding wing. Though Dusk draws in a breath, quick and sharp through his nose, he doesn't release his grip on Matt's arm. His shoulders tighten beneath his friend's hand, his mouth still pressed hard to skin as he swallows, tongue lapping greedily. His wing curls a bit more snugly as the other man's strength falters, pulling into a warm cocoon that holds Matt up -- and quite firmly in place. Matt's grip loosens by degrees until his hand goes slack. For a moment it seems as though he might have lost consciousness, but the tighter press of Dusk's wing rouses him again. "Oh gods--" He struggles rather feebly, then stills again, mastering his breath. His free hand comes up to rest at the back of Dusk's head, fingers threading into thick black hair. "Dusk. /Dusk./" His voice is muzzy and hoarse. "Enough." Once again, a deeper growl; sharp and warning. Dusk's teeth press down briefly again. His wing bears down further still, squeezing past supportive and into tightly constricting. There's a quicker desperation to the swipe of his tongue against skin, the hungry suckling pressure of his mouth, now. Matt's breathing turns quick and shallow, and it's hard to tell how much of this is sheer panic and how much the press of Dusk's wing. His fingers twist into his friend's hair, wrenching it sharply enough to hurt. "Dusk," despite the tremor in Matt's voice, despite his helplessness, his tone is firm and commanding now, "Stop. Look at me." This time Dusk's snarl is a fierce and guttural thing. No longer warning, only lashing out at that wrench. Where previously his teeth have pressed deep but clean, now he snaps, digging more raggedly into skin with a harsh quickening of his breath. His claws hook at Matt, rending the soft jacket where it's already been pulled half down and off. His grip slackens again at the sound of Matt's voice. At the /stop/ he lifts his head with a very soft whine, his wings releasing their grip entirely as he starts to take a step back. Nearly just as quickly he presses one wing to Matt's back again -- kind of shaky, uncertain, coiling it tentatively (and more loosely) as a prop behind his friend's shoulders even as /he/ is backing away, eyes wide and knuckles pressed to blood-flecked lips. If the harsh rip of fangs registers as pain to Matt--or if the pain /bothers/ him--he gives little indication, though he does make a faint noise of displeasure when Dusk /releases/ him. He also starts to collapse almost immediately, and would likely be on the ground without the wing to prop him up. "{Good...very good, thank you.}" His attempt at sounding calm leaves much to be desired this time, his breath still coming short and ragged. He has enough wits about him to put pressure on the wounds, but clumsily, slowly. "Hey. Hey um, I'm alright. If this is too much--" He breaks off, blinking his eyes clear as he makes another cautious attempt to shift weight back onto his own feet. "If you don't--sorry--if you don't feel safe...you don't have to--" Dusk looks back to Matt -- to the arm he's just released. His tongue swipes across his lips, and he tears his eyes sharply back down and away. His breathing is also unsteady, his shoulders hunching inward. "I -- you --" He blinks, swallows, starts to reach the tip of a wing for Matt's wounded arm. He pulls back away with a small shudder. His fist starts to lift back toward his heart but doesn't quite make it. He turns abruptly, head shaking as his wings pull back. He hoists himself back up onto the guardrail and then drops off of it, abandoning Matt to the chill whip of wind that's left behind.