ArchivedLogs:This Ain't The Party

This Ain't The Party
Dramatis Personae Billy, Trib	2014-11-02 Billy visits Trib some time just after Halloween, leaves in a huff.
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. Halloween is a holiday that lingers. All across the nation, people are taking advantage of the half-off candy sales and mournfully taking down their ghoulish displays in anticipation of Thanksgiving. Even here in the Sunrise, there are remnants of All Hallow's Eve -- some enterprising resident has plastered the lobby and the third floor hall with papery skeletons and spiders with crepe legs. It's not /so/ scary, but it definitely leads to a door with a large sign on it, indicating that some wild shindig must have taken place there the previous evening. Unlike most of the other doors on the third floor, Trib's is clear of any kind of decoration, other than a piece of paper taped firmly to the door that reads 'FUCK OFF NO CANDY' in crude-looking letters. Under that, the same hand has added 'This aint the fuckin party, eether.' Inside, there is just a shirtless Trib, clad in a pair of loose-fitting blue shorts and watching a boxing match on television. There is a /large/ bag of miniature Hershey bars next to him, which he eats without unwrapping, popping each into his mouth and chewing slowly as he studies the moves of the men on the screen. 'Here,' Billy texts as he makes his way down the festive, albeit still depressing hallway. Chuckling quietly to himself, he plucks the scrap paper sign off of the door before knocking. While he waits, he side-eyes his surroundings, pulling his white messenger bag closer to his side as if fearful of remnant Halloween drunks popping out from behind the shitty decorations. Billy's dressed smartly as always in white slacks and sweater, pulled over a collared shirt. To fend off the cold, there's the addition of a similarly light colored scarf and beanie, from underneath which shoot strands of platinum blonde hair. Trib glances at his phone when the text goes off, and springs to his feet, dusting chocolate crumbs from his chest and licking his fingers as he moves to the door. Swinging it open, he regards the other man for a long moment, then pokes his head out to study the hall before he moves back into the apartment, motioning for Billy to follow him. "Fuckin' neighbors," he grunts in explanation as he closes the door and locks it. "Had a fuckin' party last night -- I was shovin' goddamned crackheads away from my door all fuckin' night." He studies Billy for a long moment before he reaches out to pluck the beanie from his head with a snort. "Cute hat." Billy regards Trib right back, though it's clear the quiet pause makes him a little skittish and unsure of himself. He tremors a little as the boxer juts his head out, but comes back down to earth after a gulp. "That sounds kindof scary. Was it really loud?" He asks innocently, following Trib inside and closing the door quietly behind him. Billy giggles, hand flying up to his head a second too late to save his hat, "Hey! It's really, really cold out!" As he scrambles to make sure his hair is okay, his eyes slip over Trib, "Not that you'd know." Trib shrugs, making a noncommittal noise as he examines Billy's hat. "They ain't hard to wrangle," he says. "It got a little loud, for a while, but I've slept through worse." He pulls the hat on, working his head into it until his hair curls around the edge. "It ain't /that/ cold," he rumbles, his eyes crinkling nearly imperceptibly at the corners. "There's still rats in the alleys." He wrinkles his nose, thinking a moment before he moves towards the kitchen. "And ain't you from some place up north? Vermont, or Maine or some shit?" "Ew. /Connecticut/," Billy giggles, reaching in vain to snatch the hat back. "You're seriously not freezing?" He whines, even sniffling a little now that he remembers he's cold. Setting his bag down and wandering towards where Trib had just been sitting before he knocked, the blonde brings both hands up to rub his arms. He spots the chocolate. "You TOTALLY gave out candy to trick-or-treaters!" "Yeah, that's it. I knew it was one of them sweater-on-the-shoulder states," Trib rumbles, moving into the kitchen and rummaging through the cabinets. "Still. Gets pretty cold up there, too. You should fuckin' used to it." He pulls out a tea kettle, pursing his lips briefly before moving to fill it at the tap. Billy's accusation gets a snort, and the boxer pokes his head out briefly to grimace at the older man. "Fuck /that/. I didn't give out no candy. I bought that shit at the Rite-Aid on my way home from the gym." He closes one eye in a solemn wink. "Half-off, dude. Can't beat that shit." He flashes a bit of teeth in a flat grin, and moves back into the kitchen. "You want tea or hot chocolate?" "Oh! Hot chocolate, please," the only /slightly/ older man distracts himself with the boxing match on tv, only slightly wrinkling his nose in discomfort at the violence. Eventually, he does have to turn away. The sound of crinkling comes from his direction, possibly something akin to the sound of a miniature Hershey's chocolate bar being opened. Trib nods, retreating back into the kitchen, where the clattering of pans and cups can be heard a moment later. That's about all the sound that comes from his general direction until there's the whistle of the kettle coming to a boil. Then, a couple of minutes later, Trib emerges with two steaming mugs that smell strongly of chocolate. The mug that the boxer holds out for Billy is also littered with marshmallows that may or may not have been liberated from an obliging leprechaun's cereal. "You watchin' the match?" he asks, eyebrows lifting eagerly as he moves to sit on the couch. "Creel's got a wicked right hook, but his footwork is sloppy as shit. Look at the way he drops his shoulder," he notes, motioning with his mug. "Pure horseshit." Billy takes the mug with both hands, hissing a little and switching to using the handle when it proves too hot. "Thnk-yyou," he mumbles with a mouth full of chocolate bar. He eases onto the couch, careful not to spill his drink, "Which one is Creel?" They both look like sloppy, meat-headed Barbarians from where Billy's sitting. Bringing his hot chocolate to his lips, he blinks his lashes all doe-eyed over at Trib, "Is he the cute one or the other one?" Trib guffaws at the act, nearly spilling his own drink as his body jerks with the sudden mirth. "There ain't no such thing as a /cute/ boxer," he rumbles, reaching up to push the beanie back on his head a bit with his thumb. "There's just less banged up." He points, then, at the larger of the two boxers, a bald man in black-and-white trunks who is definitely in the More Banged Up category. "That's Creel. What'd I tell you?" He sips at his cocoa, his gaze flicking between the screen and Billy's face. Finally, he clears his throat. "You want to come to a match, sometime? See me in action?” "Oh, I-uh," Billy blinks, paling in lieu of turning red, "You wouldn't b-be embarrassed by me?" His eyebrows shoot up skeptically. He tries to laugh it off, fidgeting nervously and whispering, "He's not the cute one," after Creel is identified. He shifts in his seat as if he can't get comfortable. Trib wrinkles his nose, staring at Billy for a long moment. "Embarrassed by you? Why the fuck would I be embarrassed?" He almost sounds offended even by the idea of such a response. "I wouldn't fuckin' ask you to come if I was that kind of an asshole." He shakes his head, and takes a large swallow of his cocoa as he sinks back on the couch, laying an arm along the back. "An' I may be an asshole, but I ain't /that/ kind of asshole." Billy does his best to subdue a smile at the response. He leans back into the couch - the back of his head hitting Trib’s arm. He tilts his chin up, eyes planted firmly on the television, “I don’t think you’re an assho-” Something on the screen gets a little to real for him and his body jolts involuntarily. He brings up a hand halfway to shield his eyes. Trib snorts, his amber gaze sliding over to Billy with an amused crinkle in the corners. "You ain't been payin' attention, then," he rumbles. When Billy reacts to the violence on the screen, there's a small pull of the boxer's eyebrows, and he leans forward to set his mug on the coffee table. "It's just boxin'," he says, leaning back and shifting his weight to press his rib cage against the smaller man. "It just looks bad, mostly. That MMA bullshit...now /that's/ some goddamned violence." His jaw tightens at that, and he falls into a thoughtful silence as he studies Creel's moves. "It ain't nothin'." The blonde leans in, warming into the crook under Trib's arm and settling there. His eyes draw back to the fight tentatively, confident enough to watch from the safety of Trib's wing. "It's not like, fake, though. Like that Hulk Hogan stuff --wait, is it?" He cracks a grin. That earns another snort from Trib, a powerful exhalation that ripples through his body. "Nothin' I ever did was fuckin' fake," he says, wrinkling his nose. "You think I'd be any fuckin' good at /actin'/?" Billy leans back to see Trib better, a hand pushing against the boxer's side. "Oh! I think you'd be good at anything you put your mind to," he says earnestly, big, sweet-heart eyes going wide to offset the still-mischievous grin spread across his lips. His too-white teeth gleam. Trib hitches his side away from the push, rolling his eyes at the over-sweet expression. "There's plenty I ain't good at," he rumbles. "Especially shit that involves lyin'. I hate that shit." He shifts his weight again, bringing his side back into pushing range and reaching up with his half-hand to ruffle at the platinum hair. "But I appreciate the fuckin' support." A few minutes pass in comfortable silence before he speaks again, rolling his head to stare at Billy thoughtfully. "You'd probably be good at a lot of shit." Billy shrugs a shoulder jokingly, making a noncommittal hum. After a moment, his eyes are drawn away in thought about his recent endeavors ...and then, down. Not much self-confidence, here. He peeks up, but looks away upon seeing Trib stare at him. An unconvincing, "Uh-huh," is all he can muster. Trib watches Billy through all of this, his golden gaze unwavering. Then, when Billy answers, his mouth flattens into a disappointed-looking line. "Why do you do that shit?" "What?" Billy doesn't look up to meet the gaze, but he does start to lean his weight away as if preemptively. He tries to look at the fight but everything on the screen just makes it worse. At any rate, he knows 'what,' so he flits his eyes up but can't hold it, and looks back down, "Sorry." Trib apparently knows that Billy knows what he's talking about, since his gaze does not waver. He also doesn't answer the question, waiting silently until Billy apologizes. Then a corner of his mouth pulls tight in a brief, reflexive move. "Don't be fuckin' /sorry/ about it," he says. "I just don't understand why you do it." Billy winces, holding back a second apology. Perhaps unconsciously, he inches away from Trib. He does consider just bolting from the couch, perhaps some muscle tensing even gives away that line of thought. At any rate, he decides against it. “Stop cursing at me,” he mumbles, scuffing his expensive, too-white sneaker against the floor. Trib stares for a moment longer, watching the toe-scuffing impassively before he turns his attention back to the television. "xcuse /me/." “I-I uhm, I should just go,” Billy stammers, “I have school in the morning, anyway.” He adjusts his glasses, pushing up from the sofa. He tosses his scarf on and looks around for it for a moment before remembering that it’s on Trib’s head. He hesitates. 'You ain't got to go," Trib rumbles, looking over at Billy when he stands. "Unless you want to." His brow furrows as Billy stares at his head, and it takes him a minute to also recall that he's wearing the blonde's hat. Reaching up with his half-hand, he plucks it from his head, and holds it out. "I mean, we ain't /fightin'/ or nothin'." Billy takes the hat too-quickly. He pouts, turning up his chin a little, "I want to." Later on, maybe he'll realize the fatal flaw in getting hurt by someone's approach to telling you not to be self-deprecating ...but right now, he doesn't. He hesitates again, maybe just because of Trib's shirtlessness, before moving to tug on his coat. Of course, he after getting on arm in the sleeve, he can't find the other one. Trib's teeth grind audibly at the too-fast, too-hurt response, and his gaze hardens. "Whatever you gotta do, dude," he grunts, rolling his shoulder in a shrug. "But I ain't fightin' with you, so I don't know what you're runnin' off for." He watches the struggle with the coat with a small tightening of his mouth, but he doesn't move to help the other man. He seems to be waiting; maybe for an answer. Even more flustered, Billy continues to struggle with the coat. He doesn't give a response, unless a helpless, tired grumble at not being able to get his arm in his sleeve counts. Eventually, he pulls himself out to start over. "Sorry," he mumbles, turning his back to the couch and television. His coat doesn't have a zipper. The buttons take an eternity. Inevitably, he gives up on those. He can do that in the hallway when his hands stop shaking. Not looking back, he swings open the door and slips out into the cold. At least, he's not so dramatic that a door-slamming is in order. He just closes it behind himself quietly. Trib watches the door close behind Billy, his lips pursing thoughtfully. Then he snorts quietly, and goes back to watching the match. Or at least looking in that direction.