ArchivedLogs:Shake It Off
| Shake It Off | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2015-03-20 "I knew you liked that song." |
| Location
<NYC> Billy's Apartment - Brooklyn | |
Billy's tiny, dimly lit studio could be mistaken for any other twenty two year old's apartment. The walls are a cozy cream color, but the marring of white hand and finger prints do give it a bit of a monster's lair feel - particularly around the small, twin bed that's pushed into the far corner of the space, which depicts a sleep struggle from various elbowing and kneeing of the wall. The corner kitchenette and the bathroom, which is only closet-sized, offer much to be desired. Past that, the apartment is just as clean as one might expect. A plush white area rug protects the faux-wood linoleum. A large, framed print of 'The Unicorn in Captivity' from the cloisters' Hunt of Unicorn tapestries hangs on the center wall. Two dresser-towers overflow with clothes, as well as the plush white love seat. A cheap ikea desk and bookshelf littered with papers and textbooks are set apart in their own little office nook. It doesn't look like Billy entertains many guests. In the last month, Billy's micro-apartment has gone through a metamorphosis. A few shoes had to lose their lives before he properly puppy-proofed and in the end, what wasn't scourged away in the little dog's wrath was tidied and put up, out of reach. As a whole, the space is much better off for it. In a pair of white, cotton pajama pants, the blonde hovers about in the kitchen area. If the rest of the apartment got a near permanent cleaning, the kitchen did not. The counter is cluttered with mixing bowls, flour, and other miscellanea. The only other adorning the young man are a pair of white oven mitts, which he uses to pull open the oven and remove a tray of cookies. Depressing but calm Indie music plays from Billy's laptop on the bed across the room at a reasonable volume. Ah, calm. That's the thing about it. It can always be shattered. Or disrupted. Case in point: one very large boxer who makes his way down the hall outside. Trib is dressed in a pair of jeans and a denim jacket over a black t-shirt that reads I FUCKED YOUR BOYFRIEND in white type across the chest. On his head, a green fedora rests sort of jauntily (for Trib, at least), and in one hand he carries a white canvas shopping bag filled with items that had to have been on a list of some sort. In his other hand, he holds a very slender lead, attached to one very worn-out looking puppy at the spiked leather collar around his neck. When he gets to Billy's apartment, he doesn't knock to announce his presence, but pushes his way in, kicking the door shut behind him once Taylor is safely inside. "Goddamn if he don't have to sniff every goddamned post between here an' the bodega," he rumbles, setting the bag down so he can unleash the puppy. "I told you, Butch, it ain't likely to fuckin' change, as often as /you/ gotta go out." Taylor, for his part, listens for about four words, then trots off to find his water bowl and drink noisily. Kids. "They didn't have that cheese you wanted," Trib says as he stands back up and brings the bag to the kitchenette. "But they had this one with chipotle peppers in it that looked pretty good." "But they had the cheese you wanted?" Billy teases. Shirtless and smiling, he turns as if on revolving pedestal, presenting a tray of fresh baked cookies. Turning back again he has to set down the tray and close the old Brooklyn oven's creaky door before he can address the REAL issue. One oven mitt and then, the other are flung ruthlessly at Trib's chest, "Stop calling him Butch! He's so confused! Look at him!" Taylor looks over at the two men, wagging his tail a little. "Hey, you'll like it," Trib promises. "I asked the guy if it was too spicy, and he said it wasn't." He rolls his shoulder, leaning forward to snag a hot cookie from the tray and bounce in his hands eagerly before tossing it into his mouth. Making a noise of approval, he almost misses catching the flung oven mitt, but he manages to pin it to his chest, holding it there in mock offense. "I told you, I ain't never callin' him that other name," he rumbles, narrowing his eyes. "He ain't confused. He knows what's what." He leans down, brushing cookie crumbs from his lips and holding crumb-dusted fingers out for the puppy. "Ain't that right, Butch?" He grins as the puppy trots forward to inspect his fingers, and looks up at Billy, trying to modulate it into something sterner-looking. "Besides, ain't Taylor Swift a /girl/? Talk about confusin' him." Billy holds up both hands, "'Taylor' is totally a gender neutral name - I can't listen to this." Both hands find their way to where his hip bones jut out. "/And that was a dog treat/." The blonde waggles his eyebrows daringly, plucking up a bone shaped cookie from the tray and holding it up to eye level as evidence. He tries to hold a straight face, but nearly spit-chokes trying to contain his laughter. "I like Butch," Trib says stubbornly. "It goes better with his new collar." His eyebrows lift at the revelation of the nature of the cookie, and then he narrows his eyes as he stands back up. "You're bakin' for your /dog/?" he verifies, clearly unable to wrap his head around that fact. Which seems to be more troubling than the idea of eating a dog treat. "You know they sell that shit, right?" When Billy starts laughing at him, he steps forward, scooping the smaller man up and pinning him against his body. "Think that shit's hilarious, do ya?" he rumbles, and bends his head down to start kissing Billy anywhere on his face that he can manage -- playful little jabs of his lips that land much more softly than indicated. "I'll wipe that smug look right off that cute face of yours." Which is a threat without any real heat behind it. "An' your little dog's, too." It's a good thing Trib never saw the receipt for all the ingredients ...which were considerably more than prepackaged dog treats. Billy continues to giggle, pushing Trib away half-heartedly while he turns his nose up at the kisses. "Taylor!" He pants between laughing, "Kill! DEFEND ME!" "I'll bleach you!" Taylor sits. "Hah," Trib says, when he glances over at the not-helpful puppy. "You're in for it, now. Two against one." The boxer spins, still holding Billy, and tightens one arm to loosen the other. This is the arm he uses to scoop up Taylor on the way to the bed. There, both Billy and dog are dumped, and Trib snaps the fingers of his left hand, pointing with his right. "Let's get 'im, Butch." And then he descends on Billy with more kissing, this time aided by the tiny puff of white, who might be confusing kissing with nipping. Maybe. Billy pushes his laptop gently out onto his bedside table, laying back and laughing. "Why does he listen to you?!" He pretends to flail and fight back. slapping his hands against the other man's sides. It's all fun and games until an innocent speck of Billy's saliva flies out at catches the puppy in the face. The creature lets out a terrible squeal, rearing back away from the couple and slamming into the wall the bed is set against. Billy jolts up, all but throwing Trib off of him if he weren't so comparably stronger. There's no need to shove. At the sound of the dog's squeal, whatever sassy answer Trib had for Billy's question dies on his lips, and he rolls off Billy. "Fuck," he mutters, reaching out in an attempt to scoop up the whining puppy. "C'mere, Butch," is as close to a croon as Trib comes, his voice dropping low and wheedling as he works his hand around the puppy. "Let me take a look," he says to the puppy, and glances over at Billy. "Go get me some bakin' soda mixed with water. Thick." All business now, he doesn't really sound like he's /asking/. Well, not of humans, anyway. "C'mon, Butch. Let me see." Sitting up, Billy doesn't move right away. His face is steely from guilt as he watches Trib comfort the puppy. Rubbing his warms meekly, he pushes up off and silently does as he's told. The hissing sound of water drowns out Trib's cooing for a moment, but Billy soon returns with a little wasabi bowl of the concoction. "Here," he says in a breathy tone, holding it out with two shaky hands. Trib finally manages to coax Taylor into his hand, and he cradles the puppy to his chest, inspecting his muzzle carefully. Once he's found the burned spot, he blows gently on it to provide what cooling effect he can. The puppy trembles in his hand, and there's an unreadable expression on his face. When Billy returns with the bowl, he doesn't take it. Instead, he dips two fingers in the thin paste, and coats them liberally. Then he strokes them on the tiny muzzle, whispering encouragement to the tiny dog. After a few minutes of this, there is markedly less trembling from Taylor. "I think he's gonna be okay," Trib announces. "Probably need to re-apply that in a little bit, though. Just to be sure." He reaches out to tousle Billy's hair. "You okay?" The spoon Billy had used to stir rattles in he bowl as he flinches away. "Yeah," he mumbles, trying to look away with a defeated slump of to shoulders. A well of tears made of the same terrible chemical build up behind his eyes. He keeps them at bay with slow, deliberate breathing. "Gotta to be more careful," Billy says to the bowl in his hands with a hint of accusation to his tone. It's unclear if he's simply talking to himself. "Hey," Trib says, leaning into Billy's personal space, bumping him with a meaty shoulder. "Shit happens. He's okay, an' we'll /all/ know better next time, yeah?" Trib doesn't sound overly concerned, even going so far as to put Taylor down on the floor, where the puppy cautiously makes his way to his water dish. "See? He's already shakin' it off." If Trib is aware of the joke, it's not evident in his expression. Try as he might, Billy can't contain the smile the pries its way over his lips. He pants out the beginnings of a laugh, though the sound is a bit wet. Sniffling, he tilts over to rest his bleach-blonde head on Trib's arm and watches the puppy bounce back. "I knew you liked that song," Billy whispers, bringing up the back of his hand to stop from nearly spitting on himself as he tries to hold back another quiet laugh. "...thank you." Trib makes a noncommittal noise as he pushes off the bed, taking the bowl from Billy's hands. "Don't get all sappy about it," he grunts. "I just hate seein' you get all weepy. It fucks up my clothes." He doesn't sound /too/ bothered, though, and there's the ghost of a smile on his lips as he moves towards the kitchenette. Suddenly he stops, and turns back to Billy with a confused expression. "Liked /what/ song?" | |
