Logs:Struggle Meal

Struggle Meal
cn: mild violence and blood
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Steve
In Absentia	2020-04-18 "What the hell are you doing?"
Location <PRV> VL 403 {Geekhaus} - East Village
This is a small, two-bedroom apartment, the living room semi-open to the kitchen and dining area, a single bathroom situated between the doors to the bedrooms. The common areas are beautifully appointed with solid, matching handmade wooden furniture in intricate geometric mosaics. The kitchen table is ringed with coordinated but not identical chairs, two of them modular with low scooped backs, designed with winged bodies in mind. The wide, low coffee table fits neatly into the corner of a modular sectional couch, and the immense television is enthroned in an entertainment center that also houses various consoles and video games. The walls are lined with bookshelves laden with comics, roleplaying supplements, board games, speculative fiction, and a grab-bag of technical texts. The walls in between are adorned with some framed posters of classical science fiction and fantasy media along with a few pieces of gorgeous if unusual original art. It's a brisk evening outside, the streets and the park lively as New Yorkers try to resume the rhythm of their pre-pandemic lives. Steve lets himself in quietly and sheds his combat boots in the entryway. Unlike many of his friends of late, he looks hale and healthy and reasonably put together in a blue, purple, and white plaid flannel shirt, a white t-shirt visible where the top two buttons are undone, and nicely fitted straight-leg blue jeans. He smells of coffee and fresh cookies, not least because he's brought along some of the latter in a container tucked under his arm. It's clear Flicker hasn't quite gotten in from work, just yet. The apartment is dark, the door to Hive and Flicker's bedroom standing open and empty; on the coffeetable a holographic screensaver is slowly constructing and then deconstructing the Macao Science Center from its skeleton outward. It's quiet, too -- or at least it was. As Steve sheds his boots there's a low rumbling, very soft at first but slowly growing deeper, soft and growling from the farther bedroom, its door just slightly ajar. Steve's pulse speeds up at the sound of the growl, but after a moment's hesitation he puts his boots away and rises. "It's Steve," he calls, casual and not very loud. "Sorry to disturb. I brought cookies from Jax as compensation." He pads into the apartment, pausing to scritch Cat under his chin, and deposits the container on the dining table before turning to dart a dubious glance at Dusk's bedroom door. The growling subsides at Steve's introduction, cutting off in a soft whine. Then silence. There's a slow shift that follows; the soft whisper of sheets crumpling, shuffling, a quiet scraaape. Dusk nudges the door open with the edge of one wing, pulls himself into the doorway. Save for the immense black wings he would be hardly recognizable. The ashen pallor of his skin looks halfway to the grave already; his jeans (tied on with a length of rope) hang low on a frame gaunt and loose-skinned, bones sharp and protruding. His beard has grown in fuller, his hair too long where it falls down around his ears. His wing braces against the doorframe, claws curling into it as he sways just slightly on his feet, eyes darting first to the cookies. Then Cat. Then locking on Steve with a very slight flare of nostrils. Steve's pale blue eyes go wide-wide at the sight of Dusk. "My God, man!" he blurts, crossing half-way to the door before hesitating again, his heart hammering hard in his chest. "Do you need medical attention?" He does finally take another step, close enough to catch the other man should he collapse, though he does not reach for him. "Dusk?" Quiet, uncertain. Dusk's eyes slip half-closed as Steve approaches. Somewhere *just* at the edge of audible range there's a soft click-click-clicking. He sways again, his claws digging harder into the doorframe (already considerably more scraped-up and chipped than it was the last time Steve was here.) When Steve steps forward again so does he, moving in a sudden rapid unfurling of too many bones. The outward snap of his wings disproportionately floods the senses in the small space; there's another shower of splintering wood from the jamb, a snap of thin skin unfurling and scrape of talons on the floor, a cool whisper of air stirred up that smells distinctly of Old Spice. Dusk is, still, *fast*, that is clear enough. Though in the mad scrambled grasp of sharp-clawed wings that scrape back inward around Steve's larger frame there is none of the powerful grace that was present in their previous bout. Just a desperate attempt for purchase, a harsh whine in his throat as his teeth snap towards Steve's neck. Steve had been braced for something, but it clearly wasn't this. Dusk's wings easily enclose him, talons biting through fabric and into hard muscle, but the pain doesn't seem to faze Steve, who is far too solid and strong to be easily unbalanced, even when caught somewhat flat-footed. He does manage to throw up his right arm to fend off the smaller man's snapping jaws, and with this leverage pins him back against the wall beside his bedroom. "What the hell" he demands through gritted teeth, "are you doing?" But even as the words leave his lips his eyes are skimming more thoughtfully over Dusk's emaciated form. "You're starving," he answers his own question, easing up, though he doesn't wholly release the other man just yet. Haltingly, now, "You need -- blood?" Dusk's eyes widen as he is pinned back against the wall, his wings digging tighter in their -- still rather feeble hold. The soft rumble in his chest is low and constant now, as is the faint tremble of shoulders where Steve has him pinned. His teeth snap again, fruitlessly on the air, and his eyes are slow to drag -- up from Steve's throat towards his face. Not quite managing to meet his eyes. His growl deepens, his shoulders tightening. His tongue flicks out across his teeth, wetting his lips. For a brief and desperate instant his eyes flick up, locking on Steve's with a tiny dip of brow, a tiny catch of breath. And then these crumple, break, just another hard click of fangs. A sharper snarl. Steve relaxes slightly when Dusk meets his eyes, tensing again sharply at the snarl that follows, though he does not flinch, does not press harder. For just an instant his brows knit, and he glances at the door to Hive and Flicker's room. Then shakes his head. "Take mine," he says, his voice deliberately even. "I can afford to lose -- a lot of it." The corner of his mouth twitches in an abortive attempt at a smile. For all the bravado his pulse is racing -- by his standards -- when he releases Dusk. The growling subsides again, the apartment, for a moment, falling back into quiet. Dusk's eyes close, his talons easing their grip where they had dug into Steve's muscle. A heartbeat later it is replaced by the swift press of sharp fangs into vein, Dusk's teeth sinking deep into the other man's neck. The rush that follows on the heels of the pain is intense, a heady and relaxing swell of euphoria that comes on hard and strong. Steve does not cry out, though he sucks in a sharp breath when Dusk's fangs close on his neck. Once again, his bracing clearly did not prepare him for what actually followed. He tries to keep his body tense, but fails, his breath escaping in a quiet "oh!" as the full force of Dusk's intoxicating venom hits him. He sways perilously on his feet, stretches out his left hand somewhat blindly to brace against the wall, his right arm curling around the other man's bony frame. After this, a quiet again. Relative quiet. The uneven rasp of breath. A soft wet slurp. A low thrum that might easily be confused for Cat purring if it couldn't be felt thrumming through Steve's arm where it curls around Dusk. It takes a very long time before Dusk finally pulls back, and even then it's reluctant, a small hitch of sob in his throat and his tongue lapping again at the side of Steve's neck before he slumps heavily back against the wall. His face is flushed, his head bowing and shoulders curling inward. "... thank you." The words come low enough they'd barely be audible if Steve weren't so close. Steve makes a soft, breathy noise of protest when Dusk pulls away, his arm slow to unwind from around the other man, even if his muscles have gone slack. "You're welcome," he murmurs indistinctly. "See, I'm -- fine. I feel...amazing, actually." He sways again as he straightens up. "That's never happened before." Blushes, suddenly, the pink in his cheeks all the more stark for his newfound pallor. "Are you out of danger?" He lifts his right hand again, but stops short of touching Dusk's side, ribs starkly outlined beneath his skin. Lifts his eyes unsteadily. "For the moment?" Dusk's breath catches sharp when Steve straightens, a hard swallow pushed down his throat. A shiver passes through his wing; it brushes lightly against Steve's knuckles as his hand lifts. "I -- um." His teeth catch at his lip, eyes flicking to the still-seeping wound on Steve's neck. Dropping again. "Sorry. It's just. It's been a long -- a long month. I'll -- manage." Steve trails his knuckles down against the velvety nap of Dusk's wing, smiling faintly. "Oh...that's -- soft." He shakes his head. "Sorry. What an odd thing to say." His frown is fleeting, his eyes finding their way back up to Dusk's face. "I can't know what it was like for you, but I've known hunger, and..." He shakes his head, swaying again as the movement disrupts his equilibrium. "I can take it. You don't have to just -- manage. Though..." He blinks his eyes clear. Allows an embarrassed chuckle. "...maybe I should sit down." "Oh -- oh." Dusk's eyes widen. He curls his wing around Steve, licking at his lips again as he guides the other man to the couch. "I'm -- sorry. I didn't think -- that you would. Um. I drug people. When I bite them -- but I thought you -- that you didn't --" His head shakes. "Wasn't really thinking." He sinks down onto the couch, looking none too steady either. He curls a wing around himself, knees pulling up toward his chest reluctantly. "I'm used to managing, but this -- got bad." Fingers plucking at a seam on his jeans. There's still a rumble, soft and constant buried in his chest, but it's very quiet. His eventual smile is small, and crooked. "So uh. How's your quarantine been?" Steve is pliant, letting Dusk steer him. His balance is off, but he does not seem all that weak for the blood loss. "Must be a -- very strong. Drug." He sounds unconcerned about this, though he does slowly unwind the gauze from his right hand, rolling it around the fingers of his left. "They had to triple my doses -- quadruple -- quint -- a lot." He stares down at his hand, seemingly puzzled as to why he unbandaged the partially fused mess of digits. "Starvation, s'not a thing anyone should have to manage," he insists, raising his eyes to Dusk's. "Ever. But me -- I had food, and shelter, and company. It was..." He levers himself up and closer against Dusk's side, his eyes fluttering shut. "Don't think I've slept all week." Dusk's cheeks flush darker, his chin dropping to his knees. "Most of the time I manage it fine. I just -- I'm sorry you --" He swallows again. Shivers as Steve moves closer, his breath hitching once more. The soft growl that's been rumbling in his chest deepens, and, slowly, he unfurls his wing, draping it very lightly around Steve's shoulders. "Thanks." It's very soft. "Flicker'll be back soon. I don't think he'll grudge you some sleep, though." Steve's sluggish pulse speeds up again as Dusk's wing settles around him, but there's no fear in the quiet hum that escapes him. "I shouldn't have --" He opens his eyes with an effort -- not quite a /struggle/, but his weariness is apparent. "You know your needs best, of course, I was just...worried." His gaze sweeps over Dusk's bony limbs, his sunken cheeks, and when he speaks again his voice is soft, "I'm sorry you've had such a terrible time of it. Glad I could help." His eyes close again and this time his breathing evens out as he slips into a peaceful slumber.