ArchivedLogs:Must Love Dogs

Must Love Dogs
Dramatis Personae Arturo, Trib	2014-07-28 '
Location <NYC> Arturo's Apartment
The invitation was slightly awkward. It was a text from Arturo to Trib, typed more formally than most anyone texts. Something about pizza? Even in text, it's possible to hear his long pauses and awkward body language. Arturo...well, there's no getting around it - he lives in a shitty neighbourhood. In a shitty building. The door doesn't lock, and the stairs going up feel like your foot might go through it if you step hard enough. It's seven flights up (no elevator) to get to Arturo's flat. The good news? It actually seems to get cooler the higher you go. The bottom floor is quite oppressively muggy. Trib is...remarkably on time, for it being his first foray into Arturo's neighborhood. He doesn't seem bothered by the shittiness of the neighborhood -- perhaps he is just used to shitty things. And he's definitely overdressed for the area in jeans and a white Polo pullover that hugs his biceps and strains across his massive chest. In his left hand, he carries three pizza boxes, topped with a large paper sack that's appropriately greasy at the bottom. All of it, boxer and boxes, looks a little deflated when they finally reach the seventh floor. The air up here might be cooler, but there's still sweat dampening Trib's collar and dripping from the ends of his hair when he finally reaches the physician's apartment and knocks with all the delicate manners of a police invasion. BAM BAM BAM. BAM BAM BAM. A little ways down the hall, a door creaks open, and a nervous head pokes out. When Trib is spotted, the head disappears, the door slamming shut behind it with several locks being loudly shot into place. Trib scowls, and knocks again. BAM BAM BAM. BAM BAM BAM. The door opens rather directly and he holds up a hand. "Woah woah, hey, uh, sorry. Shoulda warned. Some of my neighbours are kind of jumpy since the door's been broken. There are...shotguns in closets. Here, come in." Arturo backs up and leaves room for Trib to enter. The apartment is...very worn. It's a bachelor, with a bed pushed under the window (though scrapes in the floor suggests he moved it there, most likely to take advantage of a breeze.) The kitchenette takes up one wall. There's a kitchen island, and a small couch. Despite the cheap apartment, the quality of the stuff in it harkens back to his once-middle class life. A pillow-top mattress with an antique brass frame and brown microfibre sheets; a throw rug with gold and brown squares; a decorative mirror on one wall; a wooden roll-top desk. This is paired with somewhat incongruous touches like a shitty old tube TV, a careworn couch covered in a knitted throw, and the kitchen cupboards that are barely staying on their hinges. The careworn-ness is reflected in Arturo's clothing as well. He's barefoot (clawed toes evident) and wearing khaki shorts of a good make, but with seams unravelling along one side and a hole on the other - and a blue button-up checked shirt with a few buttons that don't exactly match. Trib's scowl actually /deepens/ when Arturo answers the door, and his jaw tightens. "/Jesus/. You didn't say shit about a seven floor walk up. I could do half my fuckin' workout just comin' to fuckin' visit." He brushes past Arturo as he enters, looking over the apartment before glancing back at the door. "People don't generally fuckin' shoot at me in this kind of neighborhood," he says, moving into the kitchen and setting down the pizza boxes. "On account I look like someone's hired goon. Which I guess I am, since Cage is payin' me." He motions at the pizza boxes. "I played a hunch and got mostly meat for toppings. Also some calzones, if that's your thing." "Ah, yeah, sorry. I uh, I haven't had anyone to visit since I moved in. I don't even think about it, honestly." Arturo rubs the back of his neck. He opens his mouth to say something about his neighbours coming to his defense if a thug was attacking him, but, then he thinks about that a bit and closes it. Prrrobably not. "Oh, thanks. I I'm not too fussy. Can I get you something to drink?" "It ain't no big deal," Trib rumbles, lifting a shoulder. "But in this fuckin' weather, you might as well go around punchin' regular folks in the damned heart, makin' 'em walk up that." His scowl fades slightly, becoming something that's -- if not more amiable -- is certainly less /grumpy/-looking. "Shit building, though. You need to find you a roommate who don't live in fuckin' Murder Towers." That apparently bears some consideration, and the boxer falls silent as he moves around the apartment. He inspects some things closely, leaning in to examine them fully before moving on to the next thing. Arturo's question gets a grunt of acceptance. "Anything that's sweet," is his choice. "Don't matter to me what." There's more silent inspection before he straigtens and moves towards the couch. "Do doctors /have/ fuckin' roommates?" "Not this doctor," says Arturo as he goes towards the fridge. Everything is as clean as a shithole apartment possibly can be. "I considered it, but it's sort of hard to advertise for it when I really don't want to hide what I am at home. I also don't want to shout to the world that I'm a visible mutant. That's just asking for trouble. Besides, I work pretty unpredictable hours. I'd need a roommate who would be willing to be quiet if I was sleeping at two in the afternoon." He rifles around. "I have some ginger ale. I have some beer, but it's stout." "There's websites for that kind of shit," Trib says, settling on the couch and leaning back to stretch his long legs (mostly) in front of him. "Hookin' mutants up. I bet you could find some mutant who needs help splittin' the rent." He tips his head, craning his chin so that he can watch Arturo rifle through his fridge. "I get what you're sayin', though. Livin' alone is just..." his jaw tightens for a second as his teeth grind audibly. "...easier. In the fuckin' long run." The choices get a wrinkle of his ruined nose, and he rolls his shoulder. "Beer's wasted on me," he says. "I can't taste most of it, an' none of it makes me drunk, so I just stick with sodas and water." He waves a hand. "If you want a beer, though, don't feel like you have to be fuckin' polite about it." "Yeah I...it'd be safer. I guess I figure I'm not exactly a desirable housemate. I had this kid come into a clinic I was working and just start sneezing up a storm. Turns out he was allergic to me." Arturo chuckles, but it's clear it bothers him a bit. A stark reminder of his animal nature. He tucks a roll of paper towel and a beer under his arm, then makes his way over with the ginger ale in one hand and a pair of plates in the other. He hands the pop down to Trib. "How about you? Do you live on your own?" "My grandma was allergic to dogs," Trib rumbles, and it might be intended to be sympathetic, given the way the corners of his mouth tug downward. "I guess a lot of people are. That's got to fuckin' suck, dude." He leans forward to snag the can of soda, setting it down on the floor near his feet before reaching up to help with the plates, if needed. The innocent question gets a shadow flickered across the boxer's expression, and he lifts a shoulder. "I had a boyfriend," he says in a rumble that's a little deep to be as casual as he tries to sound. "But he took off, so it's just me now." His jaw works for a moment, and he inhales sharply through his nose before he continues. "Which is fuckin' /better/, yeah? On account my trainin' really ain't fuckin'...whatayallit. Conductive? To havin' boyfriends an' shit." It almost sounds convincing. "Mmm, I guess there's all sorts of excuses we can tell ourselves, huh?" Arturo smiles a bit sadly. "So, how would the ad go? Visibly mutated dog doctor seeks roommate for shitty but not condemned apartment-sharing. Keeps odd hours due to clinic work. Interested? Email DoctorHound at gmail dot com." Trib narrows one eye at Arturo's comment, regarding the other man for a long moment before he snorts lightly. His mouth curls into an almost smile, and shakes his head. "You don't read many fuckin' ads, do you?" he asks, wrinkling his nose. "It's a fuckin' personal ad. It should sound good." The boxer taps his chin as he considers. Then he lifts his hands, noting each word with a pop of fingers as he offers his own idea. "'Medical professional, puppy-dog type, seeks roommate for platonic rent-sharin' situation. Quiet non-smokers preferred, must love dogs.'" Now his smile is very broad. And toothy. Arturo may have just snort-laughed a bit. It actually comes out sounding a bit like a canine whuff. "Well, when you retire from boxing, you might just have a career as a copywriter." He lifts his beer in a salute to Trib, sips, then chuckles again. Now it's Trib's turn to snort-laugh, and he reaches down to grab up his soda to return Arturo's salute. "I just read a lot of fuckin' personal ads," he rumbles, closing one eye in a solemn wink. "An' I'm only half-klddin'," he says after taking a deep draught of his ginger ale. "This ain't no place for someone who ain't whorin' for crack to live." "Well, people don't mess with me much. If they bother me, I just do this," Arturo bares his fangs. It's clear he's meaning to be rarr tough, but he can't quite keep a straight face. A hand goes up to his mouth to cover the laughter. "Yeah, yeah. I know I need to get out of here. I need to get out of this /rut/ I'm in." Trib looks unimpressed with the show of fangs, even going so far at to poke a finger at said fangs. Possibly catch a pointy tip on a fingertip before he shrugs. "Could work," he grunts, leaning back and taking another swig of his soda. "If they don't fuckin' shoot you." His tone is pretty matter-of-fact. "Which is generally the problem. They're either shootin' you, or grabbin' you up and shovin' you in a goddamned cage." His expression darkens for a moment as he stares in the TV's direction. There's a sound of slightly-crumpling aluminum from the can in his hand, and then he shakes his head, returning to the present. "You need to be around people," he declares, reaching over to pat Arturo on the knee. "People who'd miss you if you fuckin' wasn't around." Arturo makes a little whuffing noise when his fang gets poked at. It's deep and throaty and clearly not quite human. "I'm uh, I've never been very good at making friends. In case you didn't notice." He reaches for the pizza box and flips back the lid. "I've spent my life keeping my head down so I won't get noticed. Most of my adult life has been spent studying or in a lab. Or a clinic, lately. "Been thinking of moving back to Maine, but it's too easy to stick out there. At least I can get lost in a crowd here." "You made friends with me easy enough," Trib says, leaning forward and snagginga piece of pizza laden with pepperoni and sausage. "An' I /sure/ don't know shit about labs or studyin' shit." He flips the pizza onto a plate, and offers it to Arturo. "I mean, I ain't the best person to talk about makin' friends," he amends, licking sauce from his fingers before grabbing another slice of pizza. "People ain't overly fond of /me/, as general fuckin' rule. But you gotta /have/ 'em. An' fuck them what's got a fuckin' problem with you on account of how you fuckin' /look/." "I think that's why I like you," says Arturo with a bit of a squint. "Cause it doesn't make a lot of sense for us to get along. The only thing we have in common is that we're mutants." He accepts the plate with a murmur of thanks. "You'd have been the kid my parents would've grounded me for hanging out with." Trib rolls a shoulder. "I don't give a fuck about what people do or how smart they are," he grunts, rolling his slice of pizza in the middle and taking a HUGE bite from it. A bite he continues talking around as he chews. "I only care about how fuckin' honest people are about shit. An' you're a pretty straight-forward guy." He wrinkles his nose, chewing thoughtfully. "You figure that's on account of the dog in you? They're pretty open about how they feel an' shit." The boxer must be relaxed -- he's practically /babbling/ as he eats. The assessment from Arturo's parents gets a bark of laughter. "My granddad wouldn't have let me hang out with you," he says. "He'd have thought you was payin' me for protection or some shit." "No, I think the honesty's the Mainer in me." Arturo takes a bite and smile sthrough it. "I do ask myself that question, though. How much of me is my mutation, how much is just my personality. And then I wonder if that's even an important distinction. The mutation is a big part of me. No use wondering what I'd be like if it wasn't there. I'd be someone else." He takes another bite, then washes it down with a mouthful of beer. "I was pretty big as a kid. Hit my growth spurt early. Unfortunately for me, my spurt stopped at five nine in twelfth grade." "There ain't no difference," Trib says of mutations and personality. "An' it don't fuckin' matter, anyway. Like you say, you'd be a different fuckin' person with different shit happened to you. So, who you are is who you are." He rolls his shoulder. "Like I said, just bein' honest about yourself is a big part of the shit I care about." He snorts at the idea of Arturo being /big/, choking it off as he realizes this might not be a joke. "I meant on account you were probably one of them smart kids," he amends, poking his tongue into his teeth and pushing around there for a moment. "An' looked it. None of the guys I ran around with woulda been accused of /that/." "Believe it or not, I wasn't a big nerd in school. I..." Arturo stops for a moment and ponders. "...okay, so I was a /little/ nerdy. I was the smart kid. But I played sports, too. At least until it got a little suspicious that I was nearly lapping the other kids. High school..." he starts to say something more eloquent, but then decides to take a page from Trib's book. "High school fucking sucked." "Bein' /smart/ ain't the same thing as bein' a /nerd/," Trib corrects Arturo with a small frown. "I knew some nerds who was dumb as shit, an' some smart mother fuckers who looked like scary bad-asses." He rolls a shoulder. "But most of the doctors I've met seem to all be them in-between guys." He shrugs, and reaches for another slice. "Ain't nothin' wrong with that. It just is what it is." His mouth tightens at the declaration of high school's suckiness, and he jerks his chin to his chest. "Yeah it did." "It sucks for everyone. We're all just really good at pretending that we're doing fine. So it becomes this big..." Arturo waves a hand, "...mass delusion." Chomp chomp chomp goes the rest of the slice. He reaches for a second as well. Trib snorts. "Yeah, but that ws fuckin' years ago," he rumbles. "Maybe less for me than for you, but it was still in the past." He grins. "Them people ain't even a goddamned /issue/ for you any more." He lifts his soda and pizza slice in an echo of the earlier salute. "An' /they/ ain't here enjoyin' this feast, are they?" He shrugs again. "So fuck 'em. Anyone who don't like dogs -- even mutant ones -- is a piece of shit anyway." "See, that's not...something I can do. The whole not caring what people think of me. I mean, I totally destroyed my professional relationship on principle, but uh, so my caring what other people think has its limits. But I feel like I said 'fuck you' to everyone who judged me at first, I wouldn't have anyone left to talk to." Arturo picks up a dropped piece of pepperoni and tosses it into his mouth. Trib rolls a shoulder. "I ain't tryin't to tell you what to do," he rumbles, and takes another large bite of pizza. "But you wouldn't be completely on your fuckin' own." He jerks a sauce-covered thumb at his chest, leaving behind a scarlet smear. "I'd still fuckin' talk to you, an' all you need is one fuckin' friend." "I don't know, man. I'm pretty high maintenance." Arturo manages to say that with a straight face - a face he manages to hold through approximately five chews of pizza before he starts to laugh. Trib smirks. "Yeah, I bet. LIke one of them purse dogs." He holds up his left hand like a duck's bill and flaps his fingers together. "Yap, yap, yap." "Hey!" Arturo bats at the hand and then speaks through gritted teeth. "You put a goddamn tutu on me and I will /end/ you." He even manages a growl in his voice, but the laughter starts up a moment later. "Scooby, if I put a goddamned tutu on you, feel fuckin' /free/," Trib rumbles, and leans in Arturo's direction, looming at him. "I can think of better shit to do with my time than playin' dress-up with you." "My power /is/ dress-up. I just wish I could control it. I'd be...I uh...well, I actually don't know what I'd use it for if I could. I'm not exactly a super-spy." Arturo lifts a shoulder, then he looks up at looming Trib. "Why use it for anything?" Trib rumbles, squinting slightly as he studies the older man. "Who the fuck would you be trying to fool? Other than yourself?" He eases back, then, out of the other man's personal space. "Why not just be who you are? That guy is pretty fuckin' interestin', without dressin' up." He waggles his eyebrows. "Pretty damn interestin', from what I remember about you bein' undressed." "When...? Ah, right, the shower." Arturo turns a bit pink. "I dunno. Might be interesting. Sociological experiment. See how people treat me when I look different. I see a little bit of it, though I can't control how I look." He's babbling a bit. Trib continues watching Arturo, his eyes twitching slightly at the pinkening. "What would you look like, if you could control it?" he wonders. "You want to be all handsome an' shit like that Bradley Cooper?" "Nah. Well, maybe for a little while. Though I only have a vague idea of who that is. I'm an old guy, remember?" Arturo grins a little, takes one more bite of the pizza and then sets the plate aside. "Haven't thought about it too much, to be honest." "If you haven't thought about it, you probably ain't that interested in findin' out," Trib opines, with a tone that says He Knows Of Which He Speaks. "So it probably ain't worth spendin' too much time worryin' about." He reaches over to ruffle a hand through Arturo's hair, and pushes to his feet. "Now, you got a movie we can watch?" he wonders, leaning down to peer at the meager stack of DVDs by the television. "Rocky or somethin'?" Since Arturo's hair is so long and unruly (so he can cover his ears) it ruffles easily. "You might be right. Ah, no boxing or sports movies." In fact, there are a fair number of werewolf movies. For...research, of course. "Ooh. Have you seen Boondock Saints? Seems like your kind of movie." "Too many guns," Trib grunts, and then makes a small noise of pleasure as he pulls a case from the stack. "Hey -- you got the first Howling movie. Let's watch that. I love watchin' that newschick go all wolfy at the end." "Guest's choice," says Arturo as he lifts a hand. "I don't think I've even watched that one." And indeed, it still has the shrink wrap on, and a $1.99 discount sticker. The sound is actually good from his piece of crap TV, even if the picture is very 1996. Anyway, it wouldn't quite do to watch a classic horror film on a flatscreen. There's no HD to display.