ArchivedLogs:Rocky I

Rocky I
Dramatis Personae Billy, Trib	2014-08-14 '
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. Little Billy's knock on Trib's door is barely audible. Timidly in his little white polo and photographer pants, the blonde shuffles his feet into the hallway's flooring. Shaped almost exclusively to hold one thing: a bottle of wine, he shifts the flimsy canvas bag that he's brought from one hand to the other. A few moments pass ...and then, a few more until he feels pressured, to his chagrin, to knock again. This time, *slightly* more firmly. Suddenly, the worry strikes him that this is the wrong apartment and he begins inching away. It's only a few moment from the knock until the door to Trib's apartment swings open, and the boxer LOOMS in the doorway. He's barefoot, dressed in jeans and a snug, white tank top. His hair is shoved back behind his ears, held in place with a green fedora that looks relatively new. Behind him, his apartment seems oddly cozy, with Bon Jovi playing softly in the background. Billy /might/ have the wrong apartment, after all. Trib inhales through his nose as he looks over the anxious Billy, and his nostrils flare slightly as his brow lowers into a furrow. "Thought you'd bailed," he grunts, before stepping back to allow space for entering. "Or ain't you decided yet?" "Hello," Billy coaxes, gesturing demonstratively, "Come on in, Billy." His mouth curves up into an impish smile as he takes a step towards the open door. Jerking to a momentary halt, he only hesitates where he has to draw closer to Trib. "Hi," he blinks, wide-eyed before stepping through. Trib smirks at the prompting, and rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Get in here before I change my fuckin' mind." He doesn't sound as irritated as all that, though, and when Billy steps closer, his eyes crinkle around the corners. "Hey," he says in response, and sweeps his arm around the smaller man to usher him inside. He closes and locks the door as Billy comes inside, then pads back after him. "I don't guess anything's changed since last time you were here," he rumbles, taking the wine bottle from Billy without preamble and heading for the kitchen. "'Cept you ain't got to sit on the floor this time." Indeed. The sofas in the living room are thoughtfully padded with several white towels that have clearly been liberated from an obliging thrift store. "You want some of this?" Trib wonders as he moves into the kitchen, holding up the bottle of wine. "I ain't got no real wine glasses. Hope you don't mind drinkin' it out of a jelly glass." "What's a jelly glass?" Billy asks innocently, taking his time to scope out the apartment before following quietly after Trib. He doesn't notice any change, but was probably paying less attention to detail last time he was here. "You put down /towels/?" He laughs, though there is a tremor of honest embarrassment to his voice. "I wasn't sure if bringing beer would be better, but I don't really drink beer," he rambles, hovering in the kitchen entrance, "So, I wasn't sure what kind or-" "Hell yes I put down towels," Trib rumbles, setting the wine on the counter next to bag from a nearby Vietnamese restaurant. He frowns at the bottle before he peels the wax from around the cork. "I ain't made of money, you know. I can't go an' fuckin' replace a couch like that." 'That' comes with a flutter of the fingers on his half-hand that's probably intended to be a snap. "An' jelly glasses are what I can afford." He picks up the bottle and whacks the bottom against the counter, studying the cork carefully afterward. Then he gives it another whack. The cork eases its way up with each smack of the bottle, until it's clear enough that Trib can grab it and yank it free. "I don't drink," he says as he moves to a cabinet and pulls out two glasses -- one with Secret Squirrel and the other emblazoned with Atom Ant. These get set on the counter. "My mutation don't really let me taste stuff, an' alcohol don't affect me, so it's kind of pointless." Nevertheless, he pours out into both glasses, sliding Atom Ant Billy's way. "But thanks for the fuckin' thought." Which is sincerely offered, if a bit gruffly. Billy jumps with every whack of the bottle, "Oh, I didn't know!" He pouts, "I-I actually ...didn't know you even were a mutant ...until y'know." The entire de-corking process is a real concern to Billy, but he says nothing. And any optimism or remaining confidence he might have had is much dampened by Trib's brusqueness. One hand coming up to tug at a whisp of platinum hair behind his ear, Billy takes one of the jelly cups into the other. "It ain't a big deal," Trib says, waving a hand as if he's shooing a fly away from his head. "Like I said, I appreciate the thought. Most people around this neighborhood would just show up for the free eats." He snorts a laugh-like sound, and leans against the counter. "Bein' a mutant ain't anything I like to make a big deal out of," he says. "I ain't ashamed of it, but I don't need it fuckin' up my career before it's gotta, yeah?" His mouth tips in a closed half-smile, and he lifts his glass in a toast. "Sorry again for gettin' you shot." "Yeah," Billy scoffs, lowering his eyes with a hint of resentment, "Conceal it while you can." He leans against the counter as well, clinking glasses with Trib. He takes a slow sip but even with the very small contact with the dark red liquid in the glass, his power takes effect - a smokey spiral of what could be clear water swirling on the surface of the wine, spreading. "Thanks for bringing me to the hospital," he twitches up a smile, shrugging his shoulder. He does have a lot of questions about the shooting, but he doesn't raise any of them. "I just said I ain't tryin' to /hide/ it," Trib says, his brow lowering as he goes over his last statement. "But a guy my size, in the ring an' beatin' on other guys -- I go around /tellin'/ folks I'm a mutant, an' I may as well have stayed in the goddamned cages." He /could/ be angry, but his expression doesn't really register as such as he lifts his glass and takes a large swallow. As he lowers his glass, he notes the swirl in Billy's with a small snort. "Maybe white next time, yeah?" Setting down his glass, he retrieves a couple of plates from a cabinet, and sets them out. "Hey, it was the least I could do, bein' the one who fuckin' got you shot," he rumbles, frowning briefly. "I would have stayed until they was done with you, but that fuckin' firefly they got runnin' the security....he made it clear that I was welcome to wait fuckin' anywhere else." Another roll of shoulders, ending with a sag. "I guess I don't fuckin' blame him, but it still fuckin' sucked." "White next ti-" Billy tilts his head, before looking down to his glass, "Oh." He considers the wine, rocking it in the glass, "I prefer red." He grins, taking another swig just to hide behind it. "I went to High School with him," he offers, taking another drink out of necessity, "He didn't really tell me why he doesn't like you, though." Billy didn't exactly follow up and ask or anything, but he doesn't say that. "Suit yourself," Trib says of the wine, crinkling his eyes at the corners. He pulls open the paper bag, sniffing at the contents and wrinkling his nose. "I got some spicy shit, an' some not," he says, indicating the bag. "I can taste spicy, but the kind of spicy I can taste is too fuckin' hot for most folks." The information on Jax pauses him momentarily, and he drums his fingers against the bag thoughtfully. "Well, that was pretty nice of him, I guess," he says, pursing his lips before pulling out a takeaway carton and setting it on the counter. He sniffs, and reaches into the bag. "His kids an' I don't get along," he offers in explanation. "It's mostly misunderstandin', but I ain't really wired for undoin' things I fucked up." Billy moves beside him and leans in to sniff the bag himself curiously. "No, I wouldn't peg you for being very good at that," he laughs quietly, adjusting his glasses, "That's so weird. You can smell, though? What is your power? Exactly?" The bag smells...delicious. Garlic (/strong/ garlic) and citrus and pepper all work together to create something definitely worth poking a nose into. The corner of Trib's mouth twitches as Billy moves in to partake of this olfactory bliss, and he lifts a shoulder at the question. "I can smell some stuff," he confirms. "Stuff that really smells strong, an' stuff like that. But most of it's just real faint. Like...an /almost/ smell." He wrinkles his nose at the profundity of that, and shakes his head as he lifts his glass to his lips. He takes a sip of wine, rolling it around in his mouth before swallowing. "I turn into the stuff I eat," he says, setting the glass down on the counter. "You seen it. If it ain't /food/, I can eat it, an' then turn into it." His tone is matter of fact as he reaches into the bag and pulls out a couple more containers. "For a little while, anyway." Billy narrows his eyes, “How do you differentiate between what’s considered ‘food’? Is it a mental thing?” … “What happens if you eat something that you *think* is food but it turns out not to be?” He looks down towards the paper bag that the food came in. The suggestion that Trib eat it is on the tip of Billy’s tongue. Trib couldn't look more stumped at that question than if Billy had asked him to solve the world's energy crisis using a herring and piece of sticky tape. He stares at the smaller man for a long moment, his eyebrows working themselves into a tight knot around the bridge of his nose. He inhales a deep breath, and exhales sharply. "I don't fuckin' know," he admits. "I mean, everything gets digested the way it should, but it ain't like I go turnin' into spaghetti an' fuckin' ham sandwiches an' stuff." His eyes track Billy's unspoken suggestion, and he chuffs as he reaches out and tears off a large corner of the bag, popping it in his mouth and chewing it carefully. "'Sgonna take a minute. I ain't done paper in a while." “Oh my gosh, he’s doing it,” Billy mumbles to himself from behind his jelly glass, which he takes a generous sip from. It might look like he is drinking water, with heavier red wine settling at the bottom of the glass. His pale-green eyes remain glued to the other mutant expectantly. It does take a minute, after Trib finishes chewing, before the change becomes noticeable. His skin shifts and ripples, taking on the texture of the brown paper, rough where it lattices across his shoulders, filling in slowly. Fibrous tendrils creep down his bare arms, transforming the boxer from meat into an odd 3-D paper doll. At least on the outside. He's got enough meat and bone on the inside to allow him to speak, although his voice is somehow papery when he does. "I bet this is a lot less fuckin' scary than seein' me turn into steel, huh?" Billy brings up his hand, snorting out some wine and lurching forward. Shoving the glass down onto the table, he turns away slightly to cough but his amused eyes stay trained on Trib. He pounds on his chest with the flat palm of his hand, trying to recover. "I'll take that as a yes," Trib snorts, poking a finger into Billy's side before he steps back from the counter. "That's about as excitin' as it gets, though." His jaw tightens, and the papering process slowly reverses itself, sort of, pulling out of the exposed skin and into Trib's hair, where it looks like a paper wig shoved under his fedora. "There. Now don't go lightin' any cigarettes or shit around me for the next hour or so, an' we'll be fine." He shakes his head, wrinkling his nose. "Damn. I forgot how light my head feels when I do that." Billy jumps under the finger-poking, not even attempting to hold back the giggles that immediately follow his recovery. His eyes follow the transition into the hair, awe-struck. "Do you need to sit," he asks, bringing up both hands as if to help Trib if he falls over. Guilt over instigating the /useless/ power-use immediately takes over. "Do you need some water?" "Will water disintegrate you?" He shifts his eyes towards the paper bag and back as if to check. ...It isn't water-proof. Trib looks confused for a moment at the sudden flurry of concern, and he tips his head to one side. "What the fuck are you on about? I'm fuckin' fine." Then something clicks, and he ahs softly. "Oh, my head. No, I ain't /dizzy/. It's just paper hair don't weigh as much as /hair/ hair." He shakes his head with a rustling noise in demonstration. "It just feels lighter. Changin' over don't really take nothin' out of me." Returning to the counter, he takes out the last few containers and sets them on the counter. "Burns like a mother fucker, but it don't knock me out or nothin'." He's quiet for a moment as he opens containers, then chuffs once. "Thanks for worryin', though." “Oh,” Billy almost sounds disappointed. Nodding just once, he returns to stand where his glass is. He gives Trib enough room to do whatever he’s going to do with the containers. Mischievously though, he does continue to peek up at Trib’s new haircut. “It /burns/?” Trib is definitely /rustly/ as he goes about portioning out food from the containers onto plates. There are several dishes, although the boxer doesn't seem discriminate about their placement on the plates. "Yeah," he says in answer to the question. "I guess it's somethin' to do with the nerves? All that shit gets converted over, they all kind of die, I guess. Burns when I take it away, too." He lifts a shoulder. "I guess, as far as mutant abilities go, that ain't bad. I knew a couple of guys back in the cages whose power really fucked 'em up." He waves a hand at Billy. "You just do that bleachin' thing?" Billy shudders, as if the waved hand might hit him, "Uh. Yeah. I mean, it's," he rolls his eyes as if to downplay, "...like a really painful acid, I guess. Totally temporary." He presses his mouth into a closed smile, "My uh, mucus and blood and sweat." He blinks, pointing with a finger, "Because it kills of microorganisms. It doesn't burn me, though!" "Yeah, your blood looks like milk or some shit," Trib says, matter-of-factly. "And it kind of ate up my shirt. So I kind of figured it was somethin' like that. You fucked up that guy, though. That was pretty bad-ass." The boxer wrinkles his nose, considering. "I guess it didn't eat me up or nothin', on account I was metal." He picks up a plate, then, holding it out for Billy. "Good that you're immune to it, though. I bet it'd fuckin' suck to be hacidic an' just be a mess for it." Billy adjusts his glasses and puffs out his chest, “One time a guy was going to shoot me and I spit in his eyes.” He takes the plate, hands sinking some after they have to hold up its weight, “It actually keeps me well, alive, I guess. I have a lot of really bad allergies ...or did until I manifested. I used to be on like, allllll these medications and could never like, uh, go outside.” "That's pretty fuckin' awesome," Trib says, the corners of his mouth tugging downward in appreciation of this maneuver. "Better plan than I came up with, anyhow." He moves to take his plate, and pauses, leaning against the counter and looking a BIlly for a long moment. "Can you control it, or is it always turned on?" Growing ever timid under the scrutiny, Billy looks all around at anything, awkwardly sipping his wine, “If it was ever off, I-I’d get really sick.” He continues to face downward towards his glass, but his eyes shoot up. Trib frowns, and picks up his plate and glass. "That sucks, I guess. Not bein' able to turn it off. I mean, how do you kiss people an' stuff?" It seems an innocent question as the boxer leads the way back into the living room and plunks down on the larger of the two sofas. "On a date, I mean." “I uhm, I-I,” Billy stammers as he follows, sitting down on the sofa quietly, “I guess really, really fast. Normally.” His face pales where it would normally redden and he forces a smile, “Or carefully.” He shifts his eyes, pushing up his glasses again, “Usually neither of those.” "Huh." Trib falls quiet as he begins to eat, his expression thoughtful. Billy keeps his eyes wide and innocent as he beings to eat as well. He faces ahead, not looking at Trib at all. "Weren't we gonna watch that boxer movie?" He pinches one eye half-shut, knowing he is getting this wrong, "Rocko." His smirk grows, implying that it might be on purpose. "Jesus." Trib's voice is almost /pained/ at the mis-naming of the movie, and he drops his fork on his plate with a clatter. "You're fuckin' killin' me, Billy-boy." He sets his plate on the coffee table, moving to the entertainment center and picking up a DVD. (Yes, it's /right/ on top. It might not even be in the /case/.) "It's /Rocky/. An' it's a fuckin' /classic/." He pushes the disc into the player, and picks up a remote. "You're gonna be thankin' me before the night's out." Billy laughs, pulling his legs up under him on the couch and taking small, testing bites of the food. He pushes it around with his fork while he watches Trib put on the movie. "Aren't there like, a hundred of these now, too? Do you have them all?" He leans back into the couch cushions, though with how little he weighs he doesn't really even sink in the slightest bit. "I think it's six," Trib says, moving back to the sofa and plunking down. He thumbs the remote, and drops it on the coffee table as he takes up his plate again. "But I only got the first three. The others are kind of shit. I got those, Raging Bull, Million Dollar Baby, an' On the Waterfront." He lifts his eyebrows, and offers a toothy half-smile. "We ain't goin' to watch all of those tonight, though." Laughing and shaking his head, Billy settles in to watching the movie, “I mean, I don’t have to wake up in the morning.” He does eat some, despite his pickiness, but probably not as much as Trib piled onto his plate. Eventually, it finds its way to the coffee table with his jelly glass. “I’m imagining this is exactly what your life is like,” he mumbles at one point when Rocky is getting hassled by his old man trainer. Trib just grins at Billy's assertion, and his chuff is small and warm-sounding. "Good." He, in contrast to Billy, eats heartily, clearing his plate and thumping it on the coffee table with a satisfied-sounding belch. He stretches, then, hitching up his shirt to scratch at his stomach, an act which requires shifting his body into almost a reclining position. Billy's comment about training gets a bark of a laugh. "You ain't wrong," he says. "My manager, Hector, is a mean son-of-a-bitch. He busts my balls pretty good." He wrinkles his nose. "He ain't made me hit no sides of beef, though." He lifts his chin. "You do any sports?" Distracted by the belly-scratching, Billy takes a moment, “Hm? Me?” He raises his eyebrows, “No.” He wrings his hands, adjusting to sit Indian-style, “I mean, I go to yoga?” A grin slides over his face, because he already knows that Trib doesn’t count that. Trib notices the moment, his eyes crinkling sharply and then relaxing again. "I'm too scary for yoga classes," he rumbles at the question. "But I like it. Keeps you fuckin' limber, an' shit. It's good for boxin'." He smirks. "Like dancin'. So I /do/ it, but I don't do it in a class or nothin'." There's more belly scratching, this time a bit slower and more deliberate. "Shit, that's right. You got that seven floor walk up. Fuck. That explains your ass." He waggles his eyebrows at the older man. "I should fuckin' come an' visit you more often, an' tone mine up." Billy clears his throat reflexively, squirming a bit in his seat as at first he shoots his eyes straight ahead. "Don't get me wrong, I can't really picture you dancing," Billy's eyes are drawn slowly up again as he presses backward into the couch. He curves the corners of his mouth up, catlike, at the last comment - but is in too much disbelief by it to respond. "I don't think it needs it," he mumbles very quickly under his breath, looking quickly to the television. "Hey, I'm a fuckin' /awesome/ dancer," Trib rumbles, reaching out to swat gently at Billy's knee. "I just hate goin' to clubs an' shit, so I don't really /do/ it." He watches Billy's carefully-expressionless face for a moment, and flashes teeth at the other man's last comment. "You think? It's good, but I got to tone it, or I'll get heavyweight's ass." He wiggles his hips on the sofa. "Like Foreman or Tyson." Billy mock-flinches, giggling, "So you just dance here alone?" He asks, swatting back with less accuracy than Trib and peering over the rim of his glasses, "Is that like, when you get all soft from years of steroids and estrogen or something?" He giggles more at the wiggling, "Maybe you're already getting there." "Ain't nothin' wrong with dancin' by yourself," Trib says, pursing his lips as he considers whether this statement is acutally true. Turns out it is, as he continues. "Billy Idol even wrote a damned song about it." Retaliatory swats are allowed to land, although the boxer makes to grab at the swatting appendage. The teasing gets a pained sort of noise. "Don't knock my ass till you've seen it," he warns, eyes narrowing in playful consternation. "Or I'll make you kiss it an' say you're sorry." Which /might/ be a threat? Possibly. Billy is easy to grab, not being really very fast and not /the fighter/. He slides out a second hand to prod Trib in late retaliation for having been poked in the ribs earlier. "Is that who you dance to?" Billy bites his lip, having to concentrate on his attacks pretty exclusively. His bulky glasses slowly sink down the bridge of his nose, "Pshh. I've seen it." "Shit yeah, I dance to Billy Idol. An' Bon Jovi, an' Aerosmith. Any band that's fuckin' good." He tugs on the captured hand, without any real attempt to unseat Billy. The attacks, when they come, are batted away with his half-hand. Until Billy makes his off-hand comment, and then Trib is focusing on /that/, tugging a bit more firmly on the blonde's hand. "Oho. Pervin' on me that first night, was you?" He tsks, and shakes his head. "Bet you got an eyeful, too, ya dirty bastard." "Yeah, /right/, /from the floor/," Billy laughs, turning his wrist half-heartedly in Trib's hand a few times. He keeps it tense to show /some/ resistance, not expecting to be unseated just a little bit by the tug. He lets out a gasp of surprise, planting his other hand on Trib to steady himself. The doe-eyed look of alarm fades into a grin as he slides the hand down to poke-prod Trib's ribs again, this time for a slightly more advantageous position of attack. "I knew it was a fuckin' act," Trib rumbles, a laugh half-formed somewhere in there. "All you Sharpes is the same. Bunch of fuckin' players." He doesn't seem terribly bothered by the prodding, although he does hitch his body to the side at one particular dig into his ribs. There's another tug at Billy's wrist, and the boxer screws up his mouth thoughtfully. "I wonder somethin'." Billy unintentionally gasps again, body flimsily jerking forward with the tug. "What," he asks between laughs, honestly not really comprehending the line of thought. For a split second, he glances to check on the movie before looking back innocently to Trib. Trib narrows one eye. "You said you don't get kissed," he reminds Billy. "But my tongue an' lips are pretty fuckin' indestructible." He lets that hang there, his eyebrows hiking slightly. Billy stops laughing. At first, he bats his lashes down to look at Trib’s mouth, and then back up to his eyes. “I-I,” he starts from behind a slowly fading but still present smile. It flits back up, a wall of strength. “I don’t need a pity kiss,” he purrs, drawing gently away and twisting his wrist again. He just y’know needs pity places to sleep and directions and protectors and everything else. Trib shrugs, his gaze warming as he regards Billy. "I wasn't offerin' charity." Billy peers skeptically, his mouth falling half-open in a surprised 'oh,' as eyes drift over Trib. He reaches up a hand to run through his blonde hair nervously, "If-if... if it starts to hurt pull away-" He blinks, tugging a little on his hair nervously. Trib exhales softly, an amused sort of noise. "Same goes for you," he rumbles, and tugs gently at Billy's wrist, against his chest. Then he's lifting his chin to plant his lips firmly on the smaller man's. Billy falls forward, closing his eyes into the kiss. His own chest is pounding, still not really fully believing this is happening. Or understanding how. With a trembling bottom lip, he tests parting the other man's mouth - obviously a little on edge, expecting to hurt him. He presses his blonde bangs into Trib's forehead, nuzzling and losing himself. Until he snaps back, and instinctively pulls away when he thinks it would start to hurt. Burn. Trib lets the kiss linger, his eyes closed as he savors the odd acridness of Billy's mouth. His hand loosens on the other man's wrist, and his half-hand comes around to rest in the small of Billy's back. When the other man breaks the kiss, Tirb lets it break, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth as he watches the other man. "That was pretty fuckin' awesome," he grunts. "Let's do more of that." The blonde breathes out a laugh, arching his back to fall in line with the hand and letting himself press against the other man. Running his own hands down Trib's more muscular arms, he leans in to kiss him, again. This time, he holds back less. He is still, however, sweet little Billy - so there aren't a lot of tricks up his sleeve. Trib has plenty of tricks, and all night to show them to Billy. They'll probably have to re-watch the movie.