ArchivedLogs:Good Men

Good Men
Dramatis Personae Billy Trib	2015-05-07 '
Location <NYC> 311 {Trib} - Sunrise Apartments - Clinton
For a room in the Sunrise building, this apartment is pretty well-furnished. There isn't much in the way of art - though on one wall, there are the beginnings of what appears to be a collage of articles; most boxing, although there are a few news stories and glossy physique images from muscle magazines. Against one wall is a plush brown couch is wedged between matching end tables, with a matching ottoman seated in front of it, and a blue throw blanket draped over the back. Set diagonally from that, next to a brass floor lamp, is a matching brown recliner - clearly, the three are part of a set. Decidedly /not/ matching that furniture is another couch on an opposing wall with stripes in varying widths in shades of blue, green, teal and brown; this one is a bit cheaper looking, with canvas upholstery and bare wood arms. Under it all, a mottled brown-and-ivory rug covers the hardwood floor. The only other wall with only space has a set of hooks screwed into it, which usually has a blue street bicycle hanging from it, and a skateboard leaning against the wall on the floor beneath it. The whole living room feels a bit cramped, though the relative lack of clutter keeps it from feeling too over-crowded. 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 likely stocked with bathroom-appropriate accoutrements. Thursday night, and workouts are done for the day, which means that Trib is currently at home. Which isn't unusual. Neither is the music that plays on the laptop open on the coffee table -- old school metal that's not playing as loudly as it could be, and the neighbors are probably grateful for that. And there's certainly nothing unusual in the baggy grey sweat shorts and black tank top the big man wears as he putters around the small kitchen area. The only /sort of/ unusual thing about the set up is the tiny white puppy with a studded leather collar that sits at the end of the kitchen, its tiny, fuzzy head lifted to watch Trib as he works. Trib is...cooking, apparently. Kind of. He's got a bowl, and items that clearly peg his goal as tuna salad. Which is totally cooking. Currently, the big man is chopping onions, using the fingers of his half-hand to hold it in place as he chops -- kind of violently. He might lose another finger. “-But JAX, one of the /other teachers/, brought in muffins,” Billy finishes. There have been a Jax bombs, less Micah bombs, all accompanied by the blonde warily watching Trib out of the corner of his eye. “You’ve met him before? Right?” Idly scrolling through the selection of music, Billy’s subtly seems to be waning ...as is the white bruise on his nose and under a portion of his eye. Trib's face gives nothing away as he scrapes the onion into a bowl, and reaches for a couple of stalks of celery. "Yeah, I know 'em," he says when Billy presses, neatly cutting the celery down the length of each stalk before he starts chopping that. "He was the one who gave me all that shit th' night you got shot." The chopping slows, a bit. "An' Micah...I met him before I knew he was married to Jax." His nostrils flare, slightly, and he stops chopping as he considers something. "And I know their kids. The sharks." Then he's back to chopping. "I don't guess I knew you worked with them, though." “I went to high school with him. ...at The School,” Billy stops scrolling, pinching his lips together as he draws his wide eyes over towards Trib’s chopping. He let’s the topic linger in the air, gulping audibly as he shifts his eyes away and fidgets with his sleeves, “I-I mentioned your name.” Voice slipping into almost a whisper, his eyes grow even wider and concerned as they roll back over to Trib. Trib nods. "I figured he knew you from somewhere, the way he was protectin' you," he rumbles, scraping the celery into the bowl. "This city's a small fuckin' world." The big man reaches for a jar filled with pickles, twisting the top off with a light spin and fishing one out. When Billy mentions talking to them about him, his exhalation is just this side of a laugh. "Hoo, boy. I bet /that/ went over like a fuckin' skunk in fuckin' church." He says this matter-of-factly, although there's a darkening around the edges of his expression. "I bet they told you all /kinds/ of fuckin' things about /me/." Billy gulps again, shifting his weight. He blushes white, taking in a wavering deep breath in an attempt to maintain his composure, "Why... don't you tell me. Some things." The pickle gets added to the bowl and the cans of tuna opened and drained before Trib finally speaks. "You remember that fightin' ring a couple of years ago? Cops was makin' 'em fight to the death an' shit?" He rolls his shoulder. "I was in that. Sharks were, too. We didn't get along too good." He looks at Billy, then, his golden gaze sharp as he considers his next words. "I was a real scary mother fucker in there. Because that's what kept me alive." He turns to the fridge, pulling out the mayo and setting it on the counter. "I was too scary for them kids. They thought I was a --" he shakes his head, letting his hair fall into his face. "I scared 'em too bad.” Eyes wet now, Billy does his best to steady his corpse-pale bottom lip. He doesn't recall deciding to rise from the sofa, but finds himself in the kitchen, reaching out the fingers of his white-gloved hand to test-touch Trib's arm. "I'm sorry," he manages to whisper. Trib wrinkles his nose, leaning a bit into the tentative touch. "They thought I was a different kind of monster than I was," he says in explanation, scooping a healthy dollop of mayo into the bowl. "I mean, I can see why they thought it, but it..." his jaw tightens, and he reaches for the pepper, shaking it vigorously over the bowl. "It got worse right after we got out, an' now I'm just tryin' not to let it fuck up anyone's life any worse'n it has." There's a small sniff as the big man stirs, and his eyes narrow sharply. Like the tuna salad has somehow suddenly /offended/ him. "It did a pretty good job already." “...What did they think you were?” Billy dips his head, attempting to gently coax Trib’s full attention. He gently rubs the other man’s bicep. “...What do you mean, it got worse?” He keeps his voice at a cooing volume. Trib's expression at Billy's question is flat and void of any emotion. "We was in cages, an' I'm a big fuckin' scary guy who was scarier on account they made me wear a muzzle. What do you think they thought I was?" The second question gets a shrug. "Ran into the sharks after we got out, an' they told me what they thought I was." He waves the spoon in the air. "You know my temper...it was worse right after. Like a raw fuckin' nerve. I said shit. Scared 'em worse." Billy snakes his hand up, wrapping his fingers around the spoon and gently prying it away. He tries to slide his other hand around Trib’s waist to slide him near, “Come here.” "That family don't like me one bit," Trib says, allowing himself to be manipulated by the smaller man. "They've told all kinds of people about it. People who was my friends." His mouth tightens, and his brow falls as he considers that. "Now I just try an' avoid 'em. Makes my life easier, more or less." He grinds his teeth together, then suddenly rolls forward to wrap his arms around Billy and pull him into his chest in a smothery kind of hug. Billy presses his head into Trib's chest, rubbing his back for a long moment. All the while, his celery green eyes remain open, staring off across the room, "They didn't tell me anything." He draws away enough to be face to face, bringing a hand cup Trib’s cheek, "They're good men. ... And so are you." "Yeah, they are," Trib says, reaching up to cup his hand over Billy's. "An' them kids ain't bad kids. Which is why it fuckin' sucks." Billy takes in a sharp breath, and moves in to press his head against Trib's chest once more. He holds him there for a long time.