ArchivedLogs:Pretty Little Liars

Pretty Little Liars
Dramatis Personae Billy Trib
In Absentia	2015-07-21 In which Billy makes Trib watch Pretty Little Liars as a couple. (Set after being stuck in the elevator.)
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. Thank goodness for air conditioning. On a steamy July afternoon, there's something satisfying about cold air being pumped into a tiny apartment. At least, Trib seems to be satisfied with the colder-than-average temperature of his apartment, even if he /is/ dressed in shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt. It doesn't seem to be bothering him as he works in the kitchen, shaking his shaggy head in time to the heavy metal music blaring from his laptop. Nearby, Taylor Swift (who was totally /not/ stolen from Billy's apartment during the day) watches as the big man works, making sandwiches and occasionally tossing the scruffy white puppy scraps of turkey meat. Which is probably against the dog's diet, but Trib seems unbothered. See? Now he's tossing Taylor /cheese/. "There ya go, Butch. Don't tell Billy-boy." Billy let's out a dramatic groan as he pushes the door open, slamming it shut with his hip. "I was just stuck in the elevator for like /ten/ /minutes/ with my /best/ /friend/," the blonde growls, tossing his keys and white briefcase onto the hardwood floor, "As if today wasn't like, mentally exhausting enough." In an eery switch, he pounces down with both hands on his knees and smiles, "Hi, baby! What are you doing over here?! Huh?" He isn't talking to Trib. He's talking to the dog. "Yeah, the power's been goin' in an' out all day," Trib says, reaching up to push back his hair and revealing the battered left side of his face. "You didn't gas her, did ya? 'Cause the management gets real twitchy about bodies in the elevators." Which might be a tease, given the almost bright tone of the big man, and the smile that plays about his lips. The question posed to the dog gets a rumble of laughter. "I went over an' liberated th' little bastard," the boxer notes, getting a couple of bottles of soda from the fridge and opening them. "I figured I could use the company, an' Butch likes it when we celebrate." Trib demonstrates why by flipping another bit of cheese at the dog. "Which we're doin', so just put Hooty out of your mind." “I tried,” Billy replies darkly, under his breath. After giving Taylor Swift a proper greeting, the blonde rises and crosses into the kitchen. “What are you two celebrating?” He asks, pouting and gently grazing Trib’s wounds with his gloved hand. He doesn’t admonish the man for getting hurt, like might have in the past. "Gettin' paid," Trib says, gesturing at his face. "For this. Finally got the check for the fight." He waggles his eyebrows, flinching away from that light touch. "Enough to pay the rent an' fees for th' next three months an' still have enough left over for livin' comfortably." He waves a hand at the counter. "So I'm makin' us some turkey an' avocado sandwiches, an' then..." he reaches out to loop an arm around Billy's waist and haul him in against his side. "We're goin' to watch some o' them girly flicks you like to watch an' make out like it was Friday night." He pauses, studying Billy's face. "Unless you got other plans." Easily moved, Billy presses in against Trib tenderly. Keeping his eyes trained away from Trib’s, he fingers at the fabric stretched over the other man’s chest, “Sounds nice.” His voice is breathy, and his mind is somewhere else. He should be celebratory, too. After all, he recently got exactly what he wanted as well: a faculty position at Xavier’s, in a department that hadn’t existed until Billy wrote the curriculum, no less. Flattening his hand, Billy leans in to press a light kiss against Trib’s chest before pulling away to get himself a glass of water. “Sounds nice,” he repeats more quietly. Trib watches Billy pull away, and his brow knits slightly. "Well," he drawls. "That's what I was goin' for -- /nice/. You know what a fuckin' nice guy I am." Then he's reaching out to poke lightly at the blonde. "If you want to do somethin' else, just say so," he rumbles. "As long as it ain't dancin', I'll do it with you." Billy jumps, letting out a squeak at the poke. He peers over at Trib, doing his best to subdue a smile. He sets the empty glass down on the counter before having had a chance to fill it, saddling back over to Trib to wrap his arms behind his neck, "You wouldn't dance for me?" His eyes go large and pathetic. Trib wraps his own meaty arms around Billy, and shakes his head solemnly. "Not in public," he grunts. But here, in private, he /is/ swaying his hips in odd conjunction with the Metallica pouring from the laptop. A smooth, sinuous motion that seems to involve a lot of rubbing against Billy. "I prefer doin' it in private." Billy presses the side of his face into Trib's shoulder, staring off at the wall. He slowly blinks, "Public." He repeats the word. The young man sways, if only because Trib sways him, "What would happen if I had to move to the school for a little while?" The swaying stops at the question, and Trib shrugs. "I guess you'd move to the school, and I'd see you whenever you came into town," he says, his back stiffening a bit. "You havin' trouble payin' your rent or somethin'?" Billy breathes out a laugh, leaning his head away just enough to see Trib. "No," he brushes away some of Trib's hair, "I mean, yes, but that's not why." His mouth flattens in thought. He's too transparent for it not to be obvious when he's calculating. "Because the school might." "The school might what?" Trib asks, releasing Billy to step back and frown down at him a bit. "Want you to move out there? To take care of the kids or somethin'?" Like Billy, it's sometimes easy to see when the wheels in Trib's head are turning, and they are /spinning/ right now. "Ain't they got people to do that shit?" Billy frowns, knitting his pale eyebrows, "Yeah. They- /we/ do but, I'm one of those people." Physical resolve weakening, he relies more on Trib's strength to remain standing. "There's a discussion. About a change that may happen. They may need everyone." He shakes his head, shaking away his thoughts and patting Trib, "I mean, it's only a possibility right now." "Sounds like somethin' that could happen," Trib notes as he moves to put sandwiches on plates and dropping his head so that his hair falls into his face. "I guess there ain't nothin' to be done about it," he says after a moment, the brightness in his earlier toned dulled, now. Chips join sandwiches on the plates, mounded high on one. "If them kids need you, an' shit, you gotta go." He rolls his shoulders in a limp shrug. "I gotta fuckin' get more serious about trainin' anyway. That guy last week kicked my ass good." Billy steps over the the faucet, running it for a moment to make sure it's cool before holding his glass under the water. "Did you see that brochure I left?" A few weeks ago, in another one of his not-so-subtle ways, left out a few pamphlets on entrepreneurship seminars, one of which by a prevalent fitness guru. "You know who probably don't get their asses kicked?" The knob squeaks a little as he turns off the water. He spins around on his heel, bringing the glass up to his smirking mouth to hide behind it. Trib snorts. "Yeah. I'm sure all them Upper West Side ladies is just /waitin'/ for me to charm 'em." He wrinkles his nose, and picks up a plate and a bottle of soda, heading into the living room. He whistles once as he passes Taylor, who bounds to his feet and scampers after the big man. "I want to be a boxer," he says as he sets his food on the coffee table. "Not some fuckin' Richard Simmons fuck with a goddamned spray tan an' teeth that are way too fuckin' white." He raises a fist, and his eyebrows. "I want to knock fuckers out, not kiss their asses an' tell 'em their fat asses are lookin' good." “What about training other fighters?” Billy joins him, setting his glass on the coffee table before sitting back and curling his legs under himself, “Wait-what’s wrong with having really white teeth?” Leaning back into the cushions of the couch, Billy can’t contain the way too fucking white smile that erupts over his face. "I'm too young to train other fighters," Trib says, reaching out to grab his sandwich and staring at it. "Hell, I ain't even twenty-five, yet. I got to get a reputation before anyone's goin' to trust their career to me." He takes a big bite of sandwich, shrugging at Billy's question and talking around his mouthful. "Ain't nothin' wrong with it. I /got/ white teeth. But I ain't goin' to be one of them spray-tanned 'trainers' that hang out in gyms." He jabs a thumb at his chest, and smirks a warm smile at Billy. "I'm goin' to bring home a belt before I start thinkin' about retirin'." Billy leans forward, plucking up a single chip. He pops it into his mouth and chews it for a long time, shifting his weight to lean against Trib. "I just don't want you to end up talking like Sylvester Stallone," Billy teases, rubbing Trib's leg. Note: Billy knows who Sylvester Stallone is now! "We don't have to watch something I want, we can watch something you want," he adds, rolling his eyes. Trib snorts a laugh, reaching up to catch the bit of sandwich that gets expelled by this. "I ain't in no danger of that," he says. "Besides, Rocky was from Philly, an' they all talk like they been punched repeatedly in the head to start with." He grins, and shifts his bulk to bump Billy playfully. "Hell, no," he says to the offer. "I got copies of all them movies you love. You watch enough of my shit. It won't kill me to watch one of yours." He lifts his eyebrows. "I even got that animated one, about the cats. With the /singin'/." “Okay,” Billy pops up a little too quickly, perfectly chipper to be doing what he actually wanted to do the entire time. Also, he already had the remote. There is an audible button-clicking noise as he enters into the netflix menu, his account, “I’ve been waiting until we’re together to watch the next episode of Pretty Little Liars, anyway. Can you even like, /believe/ Spencer?” Trib, to his credit, does not look nearly as pained as he might, given the circumstances. Instead, he gives Billy a warm smile, and wrinkles his nose at the question. "Spencer...he's the one with the nice ass, right? The jerk?" “What? Spencer’s the girl,” Billy side-eyes Trib pretty hard, “She’s the one with all the jobs.” Helloo. Billy just shakes his head at Trib, his expression giving way to great disappointment as the opening sequence starts. “Sometimes, I can’t tell when you’re just messing with me,” he mumbles as he takes back his spot, wrapping his arms around one of Trib’s to make eating his sandwich that much harder. "I don't pay attention to the girls," Trib says simply. "I like the guys. Like in that show about the werewolves." He flexes his arm when Billy wraps his arm around it, and switches his sandwich to his half-hand. "Let's watch that one tomorrow." “Okay,” Billy chimes, squeezing the arm. He settles into watch the show, probably letting Trib eat all or most of whatever portion of this food was meant for him.