ArchivedLogs:Satisfying Hunger

Satisfying Hunger
Dramatis Personae Josiah, Trib
In Absentia	2014-04-07 It's not what you think.
Location <NYC> Home - Greenwich Village
Nestled into the heart of the Village, Home is an unobtrusive place, with an unobtrusive name to match. A nondescript storefront opens up into an equally nondescript cafe, plain tiled floors, an assortment of veneered tables with plain wooden chairs or booths with cracking vinyl benches. What it /does/ have to recommend it is the food, hearty solid breakfast and brunch served twenty-four hours a day, with a wide variety of menu to cater to specialized diets as well. Well-known to locals and little frequented by tourists, its friendly serving staff tend to remember their regulars, giving the place a warm feel that lives up to its name. At some point during the afternoon, Josiah receives a text on his phone. It's simple, and seriously misspelled. TEXT (Trib -----> Josiah): Hey. Lets haf diner. I kno a plais in the vilage thts prety gud. Its caled hom. See yu at arond 6. TEXT (Trib ----> Josiah): This is Trib. It's probably a good thing that he /tagged/ the text. It'll probably make it easier to find him. At six o'clock, Trib is waiting for Josiah at said location. Already secured in a booth, the boxer waits for the other man to show up, a menu ignored in his half-hand as he gazes out the front windows. It's probably /not/ a date, but Trib is pretty snappily dressed, for him. In that his jeans are dark and clean-looking, and his button-down shirt is a solid blue that makes his golden gaze seem that much more intense. His hair is pushed back, and looks a bit damp when he tucks a stray strand behind his ear. Around him, the diner is enjoying its usual dinnertime swell, the tables around the big man filling up with couples and families getting some home-style cooking to get their week started right. After briefly confirming the dinner plans - Josiah decides texting with Trib at length is not something he should do on the regular - the older man dupes and sends one copy out into the world. He's got things to do at the apartment, but doesn't want to pass up a meal at Home. So six o'clock rolls around and he enters the restaurant, on time. He's wearing a pair of dark gray slacks, a black henley, and a black leather jacket over that. "I love this place!" he exclaims on approaching the seated Trib, before sliding into the seat across from him. "What's up? You look snazzy." Trib's mouth pulls up at one side when Josiah walks through the door, and he lifts his menu to wave the older man down. "Yeah, the food here is pretty fuckin' good,' he agrees, sliding out a foot to bump it gently against Josiah's shin. "They got these home fries that are pretty fuckin' delicious." The waitress swings by to drop off a cup of steaming coffee for Trib and collect Josiah's drink order before she hurries away again. Trib waits until she goes before he answers the question. "Oh, I had to meet with my fuckin' realtor," he says, narrowing his eyes. "Finalizin' the sale of my dad's house." He reaches for the sugar, sitting up and hunkering over the table. "Speakin' of which -- how's the move comin'?" Josiah smiles at the under-the-table foot bump and orders a cup of coffee as well. "They do, and I think they actually /call/ them "Home fries," too. I mean, you know..." He grabs the menu and gives it a quick once-over, though he knows it's the standard fare here. "The move is coming along. I'm going to take a look at a couple places this week. I figure if I stay away from the bigger buildings I'm less likely to run into some evil management coalition." He leans back in his chair and eyes the other man. "What's this about your dad's place? Where's the house?" Trib takes the sugar dispenser and upends it over his coffee, pouring in more sugar than one would think would fit in that cup. He stirs as he pours, and answers the question. "My dad's place is in Passaic," he rumbles, a bit of a wince coming into his expression as he speaks. "He got ate in the fuckin' zombie plague, so I been in the process of sellin' his house." He rolls a shoulder. "It ain't been easy -- his house looks like the fuckin' Lone Ranger or Cartwrights should live there." He pauses, his brow furrowing. "Not the Cartwrights," he amends. "They was fuckin' rich as shit. Maybe the fuckin' Little House on the Prairie girls." He shakes his head, setting aside the sugar finally. "Anyway. I'm fuckin' surprised it sold quick as it did." Josiah eyes the sugar as it's copiously added to the coffee, but the news of Trib's father places his full attention on the man in front of him. "Oh. Oh, shit. I'm really sorry to hear that, Trib. About your dad, I mean, not the house. That's probably good news." He lets his own foot explore the space beneath the table, making gentle contact with Trib's ankle. His coffee is brought to him and he orders a the eggs benedict with home fries, looking to Trib to see what he gets. Once that's over, he decides to change the subject. "Oh, hey, I ran into a guy yesterday who knows you." Trib shrugs at the sentiment, and there's the smallest pull of muscle around his mouth as he stirs a bit more. "It was fuckin' shockin', but not really a surprise," he rumbles after a minute. "My pa was strange, an' didn't think about things like shuttin' doors an' shit." He chuffs a noise that's not quite a laugh. "Surprised he didn't burn himself up a long fuckin' time ago." The foot bumping along his ankles gets a crinkle of the boxer's eyes, and he watches Josiah while he orders. When it's his turn, his order is...enormous. Six eggs, scrambled, with toast and a plate of home-fries, as well as a plate of corned-beef hash. When the waitress has gone again, he slumps back in his chair, shoving his knees forward so they're pressed against Josiah's. The comment gets a raised eyebrow, and a narrowing of one eye. "Yeah? Who was that?" Josiah lifts his coffee, without making any additions to it, to his lips and sips the steaming liquid. He watches Trib talk about his father, gauging whatever emotion is there as best he can. It's a sad thing to hear, but the order Trib gives makes the situation /almost/ comical. With the waitress gone, Josiah presses his own knees against Trib's, sacrificing posture to do so. "Small kid," he answers. "Looks like a shark, eats a lot of hot dogs. I don't think he likes you very much. Any idea why?" There's a hint of sadness in Trib's eyes when he talks about his dad, but it disappears when Josiah's knees bump against his. Luckily, his legs are long enough that Josiah's posture likely isn't all /that/ telling. The boxer is taking a sip of coffee just as the mentioner is exposed, and he stills; the searing liquid has to be pressed against his lips, but he doesn't react. Instead, he lowers the cup, and squints one eye at Josiah. "I ain't surprised," he says in response, his voice carefully measured and calm. "Which one was it? The mouthy one, or the one that's super polite?" Josiah braces himself for more than the response he got, and he looks relieved to have to only say, "The super polite one. I met the mouthy one, too, and I don't think he likes me much, either." He shrugs and drinks a bit more, setting the cup down on its saucer when he's finished. "So what's the story there? The kid was nice and you seem alright." He winks and playfully wiggles a leg. Trib snorts at the sentiments on Shane, and he lifts a shoulder. "That kid's got a mouth on him, all right," he rumbles, still in that measured voice. "But he's mostly bark -- /mostly/. The super-polite one is more fuckin' dangerous." He sips his coffee again, and shakes his head at the question. "Long story," he grunts. "Mostly involvin' misunderstandin' an' them thinkin' they was protectin' a friend of theirs." He sets his coffee back down, allowing his knee to be wiggled, and offering a little (possibly) playful resistance. "What'd he say about me?" Josiah's brow wrinkles at the new light shed on Sebastian. More dangerous? He was almost...cute. "He didn't say much at all, actually. He, uh, smelled you on me. Embarassing," he says with a laugh. "I just got the feeling there was something he wasn't telling me. Kind of like the feeling I have now. Not that I'm going to push it or anything," he throws in a nonchalant shrug. "And if you're worried about what /I/ might think, don't. I can make up my own mind about people." Trib wrinkles his nose when Josiah mentions carrying his scent, and he actually sniffs the air as if he might be able to smell it himself. He shrugs when he comes up with nothing other than food, and settles back. "Them kids got good noses," is all he has to say about that, and he silent as Josiah continues talking. When the older man stops, he straightens in his seat, and hunkers over the table again. He actually glances around in a bit of an old-time spy move before he starts talking in a low rumble. "I met them kids in the cages," he says. "Them an' this other kid -- some kind of superhero or somethin'. Real dumb-ass." He grimaces in memory, and continues, grinding out the words. "I tried to get the dumb kid into my cage, on account if I didn't, they was goin' to throw all three of them in a cage together, an' only one of 'em was comin' out." He flattens his right hand on the table, spreading the three digits there and watching them for a moment. "Them shark kids thought I wanted somethin' else from the kid, 'cause I was kind of a fuckin' dick in there. All scary. They had me in this muzzle, like fuckin' Bane or some shit...." Trib trails off, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. "Anyway. Them kids thought I wanted /that/, an' now they think I'm some sort of fuckin' pedo creep." He twists his mouth thoughtfully, chewing on the inside of his cheek and staring at Josiah for a long moment. "After we got out," he says. "I ran into them kids with Cage, an' they up an' called me a fuckin' rapist right in front of him." He winces and colors at the memory, curling his fingers against the formica table top. "It went fuckin' downhill real fuckin' fast from there." Josiah glances down at the table, at the maimed hand, and winces. "Ok, I think I get it." He glances away, to plates of bacon and eggs and BLTs scattered about. He looks back to the kitchen, as if in anticipation of his own meal. He looks anywhere, really, to avoid looking at Trib while he processes the dark story. Eventually, though, Josiah finds himself drawn in by the other man's eyes, locked on. "We seem to only talk about terrible things when we see each other." He reaches over to give Trib's hand a quick caress, testing the waters. "Is that because we're so hungry all the times?" Trib catches the look Josiah has for his hand, and he shakes his head, guessing at what he thinks happened. "This ain't from them," he assures the other man, holding up his hand and wiggling the fingers. "I did this fuckin' seven or eight years ago." He drops his hand, palm up, and shrugs. "Still was a fuckin' mess. Still /is/." When Josiah meets his eyes again, he smirks at the question. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, which remain thoughtful. "It's probably 'cause we have so much fun otherwise," he posits, curling his fingers to catch Josiah's hand and hold it there. "Gotta have somethin' to balance out all that hunger-satisfyin'." Speaking of hunger-satisfying, Josiah pulls his hand away from Trib's as their plates arrive. "Yeah, maybe you're right," he says, his dinner-breakfast set in front of him. "Ugh, this looks good," he says, stomach actually rumbling at the meal. "Before I dig in, though, I have one more terrible-related thing to ask. Have you looked into what I asked you to?" Hey eyes Trib, then his massive meal. When Josiah's fingers slide free of his, Trib blinks, and stares at his hand almost accusingly as he pulls it back into his lap. His eyes light up as the plate is set in front of him, and he grabs for his fork with his left hand. "They do the best fuckin' breakfast here," he says, winkling at the waitress as she sets a bottle of Siracha on the table before moving off. The bottle is claimed and upended generously over his eggs and the corned beef hash. He shrugs at the question, and frowns lightly. "I went down an' looked around the place where your friend got snatched, but I ain't hardly no fuckin' Sherlock Holmes motherfucker," he says apologetically. "Lower East Side's good for doin' shit like that, because there ain't many places with security cameras, an' nobody wants to get involved." He sighs. "I'm goin' to talk to Cage about it in the mornin'. He's lots better at this kind of shit." Josiah nods and grabs his fork and knife, cutting into the poached egg gently despite the news. "Alright, well thanks for trying. I'm worried is all. Obviously. Just not sure how to act. I've never had a friend get kidnapped before." He spears some egg and home fries onto his fork and starts eating. After swallowing, he says, "What's with everyone putting Siracha on everything. It's getting out of hand." "It sucks," Trib says, bobbing his head. "You should try bein' the one bein' kidnapped, some time. Or don't. 'Cause it fuckin' /sucks/." He stabs his fork into his eggs, and gives them a stir, turning the whole mess an orangey-pink. "I'm goin' to do what I fuckin' can, though," he says, looking up and meeting Josiah's gaze with a serious look. "I wasn't fuckin' blowin' smoke the other night." He scoops up a large forkful of eggs, and shovels them into his mouth. He smirks at the question, and closes one eye slowly. In a rare show of manners, he actually swallows before he answers. "I don't know why other people like it, but I kind of need it to taste what I'm eatin'." "I don't plan on it," Josiah says, almost sounding cocky. He smirks and looks up at Trib as he disassembles his benedict. The serious look he's given kills said smirk. "Yeah, I believe you. I trust you, Trib." He eats a bit more, never huge mouthfulls and always keeping his mouth closed while he chews. Someone taught him well. He grabs his napkin and daps his face ginergly. "Why's that exactly?" "Nature of my ability," Trib answers the question directly, squeezing his eyes into narrow slits for a brief second. "On account I can eat anything, my tongue an'...whatayacallit. Digestin' tract. Are fuckin' tough as anything." He sticks out his tongue as if Josiah might see this difference. Bits of egg are stuck there, but there's no obvious difference. "An', 'cause I can eat /anythin'/, I think my body don't let me taste stuff. So, if it ain't real spicy or sweet, or strong-tastin', it's a lot like eatin' fuckin' cardboard most of the time." He shrugs. "Upside of that is, I ain't got no cavities, an' I probably ain't got to worry about havin' ulcers." Josiah lifts his fork in the air and nods emphatically, "Oh! There we go. I finally get to know a little about your ability. Tell me more. You got to know mine pretty well, after all." He laughs and pokes some more food on his fork, looking at Trib with genuine interest as he takes anotehr bite. Trib grins a hard, lop-sided grin. "Yeah, that was a lot of fun," he rumbles, his eyes crinkling. "We're goin' to have to explore that a bit more." He scoops another forkful of eggs, and shovels them into his mouth. He chews as he spears a few potatoes, and holds them up as he clears his mouth. "You really want to see?" he asks, his grin a bit more mischevious. He's about to put the fork into his mouth when the waitress appears. "Do /not/ eat another fork," she says sternly, refilling the coffee cups and offering Trib a pencil instead before heading off again. Trib smirks after her, and then looks back at Josiah to lift a shoulder. "You ain't the first person who's asked," he rumbles, and eyes the pencil before putting the point end into his mouth and biting through it as easily if it were a piece of licorice. He chews slowly, and swallows, opening his mouth to show that there is no pencil left within. "Give me a minute, an' I'll show you the rest," he says, placing the pencil on the table. "Should be interestin'. Mixed shit always comes up a surprise." Josiah devours some more home fries, giving another excitied nod of his head at the idea. When the waitress comes up, he eyes her curiously, swallows, and laughs. "Alright then," he says, unsure of what's gone on here in the past, beyond eating a fork. Tribs open maw is inspected when Josiah leans forward to see inside, nodding like someone being shown a magic trick. "I'm intrigued so far." "I ain't goin' to make too big a show of this," Trib rumbles, popping the forkful of potatoes in his mouth and chewing as he pushes his half-hand out on the table. "Watch." Slowly, his skin begins to change color, and texture, starting in his fingers and creeping up into his wrist. By the time it's done, his hand appears to be made of solid graphite. Something that Trib doesn't seem happy about, with his dark scowl. "Fuck. It would be the fuckin' fragile shit." "Not going to make a big show?" Josiah says, wide-eyed at the transformation that just occured. He instinctively reaches out to touch the granite hand, looking it over with an open-mouthed smile on his face. "That's really fucking cool, Trib." He giggles a little, even. Sitting back in his chair, he looks up to the other man and asks, "So, what keeps you from turning into, like, scrambled eggs or something when you eat?" "I don't know," Trib admits, lifting a shoulder. "Maybe it's my body's way of protectin' me. I can only do it with non-food stuff. I can eat just about anything 'cept diamond." He keeps his hand carefully on the table, narrowing his eyes as he spins the graphite out of his hand and it crawls up into his shirt sleeve. The roll of skin under the boxer's shirt indicates that said graphite lodged somewhere in that region. "An' I have to be careful I don't do nothin' that's fragile," he says, wiggling his now-meat fingers against the table top. "Like glass." Josiah nods and watches the graphite travel up Trib's arm. "Super fucking interesting. No diamonds, though? Not even if you swallow a tiny one whole?" He looks almost disappointed, but chuckles scracthes the back of his head. "I've never even heard of a mutant with that kind of ability." He turns his attention back to his food. "Thanks for showing me." Trib shakes his head. "Tried it, once. Pried one out of one of my grandma's earrings, and swallowed it. It just went right through." Which is hardly appropriate dinner conversation, but Trib doesn't seem bothered by that fact. The boxer seems amused by Josiah's reaction, and he smirks a bit as he scoops up a forkful of eggs, and adds some hash to it. "There's probably someone out there with somethin' like it," he opines. "There's a lot of fuckin' ways people go mutant, but they can't /all/ be different, right?" He waves his fork at the room. "Somewhere out there, maybe there's a guy like me out there who ain't an asshole." Josiah thinks about that shrugs, "I guess you're right. Probably someone else with my ability, too." He looks pensive a moment and then says, "What do you say we finish up here and head back to my place? I've got some packing to do and could use some help. Not moving, packing." Trib nods at the question. "Sure," he grunts, eating just the tiniest bit faster. The reassurance gets a snort, and the boxer pauses. "I'd fuckin' help you move, if you need it," he says, and his expression challenges Josiah to decry that fact. "Sometimes my jokes ain't as funny out loud." He motions to Josiah's plate with his fork, and nods. "Better eat. Sooner we get you packed, quicker we get to workin' off this meal."