ArchivedLogs:Wooden
| Wooden | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2013-08-02 ' |
| Location
<NYC> 311 {Trib} - Sunrise Apartments | |
There is no furniture in this apartment. That's the main thing that's noticeable. Well, almost no furniture. There is a battered lawn chair and an equally battered card table with a small, ancient radio sitting on it; the latter is often littered with newspapers and playing cards. And shoved up under the sole window is a battered arm chair, upholstered in a cowboy print fabric. There is no art, although on one wall, there are the beginnings of what appears to be a collage of pictures and articles -- most boxing, although there are a few news stories and glossy physique images from muscle magazines that have made the cut. Through the small, dingy kitchen is the entrance to the bedroom, where a new-looking platform holds an oversized bed – the only piece of furniture in there. The door to the bathroom is closed, but it's probably equally uncluttered in there.
From within the apartment, there is no response. Only the faint strains of classic rock. ...Which Toru is only just now realizing is coming this apartment! "Trib!" He bangs on the door a bit more loudly, this time, leaning into it heavily. "I know you're in there!" He adds, his tone a /bit/ teasing. "I just got off work, so fucking let me in!" Stepping away from the door, then, he stands there to wait a minute to see if the knocking was heard this time, but is pulling out his phone in the meantime just in case. There's still no immediate response from the apartment. The music dims, though, to the point of being inaudible, and the silence stretches over several minutes. Finally, barely loud enough to be heard through the door, there comes a rumble of slow thunder. "It's open." There is a bit of an awkward pause on Toru's side of things, and he hesitates a moment after putting his phone back in his bag. The door is opened slowly, head peeking around the corner of it. "Trib?" It's a bit of an awkward juggle to get his bike into the room, but once it's in he leans it against a wall, locking the door behind himself, and pulls off his shoes and bag. "Hey..." He /tries/ to sound cheerful, but the greeting was unusual enough that he's not really sure how to engage. "...should I have brought cake again?" Inside the apartment, it is /dark/, save for the glow of the laptop on the kitchen counter, which shows a screensaver of an active and real-looking aquarium. It's from there that the music originates, now a rock ballad in low tones. In the shadow of the bedroom, a large form (presumably Trib) is laid out, almost motionless. There's no response for the cheery greeting; just a silence that lacks sort of tangible energy. Taking in a deep breath, Toru lets out a long sigh as he strolls through the living room. As he goes, he casually strips down to his boxers, pulling gloves out of his shorts pockets before tossing that garment aside. Once he reaches the bedroom, he drops the gloves on the floor before crawling up next to Trib, shoving himself into the larger man's arms if necessary, and rests there quietly for a moment. It's only after a long, quiet pause that he quietly remarks, "I feel like we've got some role-reversal going on here." Trib is hard to move -- mostly because he feels like he's made of wood. His skin, where it's exposed, feels like almost like fine-patterned bark, or fresh-cut pine, and there's stiffness in his joints when they're moved around Toru. The big man makes no physical recognition of this moving. Like a tree, he seems content to have those parts moved that can be and stay where he's rooted. When Toru speaks, the sigh that comes from the big man sounds like wind through branches, and there's a creaking noise as his head shifts slightly. For a minute, Toru doesn't really seem to realize what, exactly, the problem there is; it's only after that sigh that he remembers exactly what it is that Trib's power /does/, and at that point he stiffens a bit, panicking /just/ a touch. "/Trib/." His voice is a touch shaky, a hand moving up to shake the man's shoulder, gripping it tightly. "Trib, what did you -- are you okay? I mean, you're obviously not /okay/. But." Biting his lip, he gulps quietly, looking up and down Trib's form, though not really seeing much with his eyes not quite adjusted to the dark yet. "...Please say something, you're scaring me." This comes out in a whisper. It might be the fear in Toru's voice, but Trib does finally move, his arms closing around the teenager with a slow creaking noise. He remains silent for a long span of minutes, letting the noise of the street and the music from the front room fill the space. His inhalation is slow, his chest rising like a bellows inflating. There's reediness in his breath as he exhales just as slowly. The words are slow, and grinding, like the boxer's vocal cords are also wooden. "Got fired last night." Toru bites his lip and just nods quietly at that. "...Well, you figured it was what was gonna happen, yeah?" There's a bit of an edge to his voice when he says this, his grip growing more firm, but he quickly forces himself to, if nothing else, physically relax a bit after just a few seconds of that. "I promised you I wasn't gonna get angry so I ain't gonna get angry, but..." He takes in a long breath, holding it a moment before sighing. "How long're you gonna be a tree? 'Cause I really don't know like... Can you even feel me?" There is concern in his tone as he moves his hand to rub Trib's jaw gently, letting it rest there regardless of the answer. "I'm here for you but I don't know how to engage with you like this." The low release of air is 'sharp' enough that it might be a laugh, thin-sounding as it is. "Knew it would happen," is another slow release of reedy words. "Still sucked. I like Cage." His eyes, startlingly human in the very low light that catches them, slide over to look at Toru for a long moment, emotions roiling across their amber surface. "Not long," is his answer to the question. "It'll fade soon." He closes his eyes at the contact with his jaw, and creaks another sigh. "Just be with me." There is a bit of an awkward nod, there, and Toru leans in against Trib, lowering his head to the boxer's chest and sliding an arm around his side. "Sorry," he murmurs, shaking his head. "I'm bein' selfish." Only a brief pause is allowed, there, before he adds, "That ain't me bein' down on myself, that's-- me realizin' I was bein' selfish. Tryin' to make you change how you're bein' upset so I'm more okay with it, I mean." In a quieter voice he adds, "Shut up, Toru." He actually manages to stay quiet, then, resting gently against Trib and, save for the occasional shifting of his position, is otherwise still as well. There's another laugh-like release from Trib, and his arms creak as he tightens them just a bit. "/Pup/." is warm, coarse as the word sounds, and carries a wealth of unspoken emotion. Then there is only silence, and the gravelly voice of James Hetfield as he grinds through 'Nothing Else Matters.' Indeed. The nickname is met by a slight blush and a little smile that Toru attempts to hide, burying his face in Trib's chest with that smile only widening in the process. Nestling himself in so that he's just a bit trapped between Trib and the mattress, he slides his hand down the boxer's arm, seeking to find the larger hand at the end and grip it, firmly, and murmur, "/My/ Trib." The emphasis is slight, but it's there. And he's content to just lie there quietly, closing his eyes and listening less to the music, and more to the sound of his Trib's heartbeat. | |
