ArchivedLogs:Timing

Timing
Dramatis Personae Billy, Trib, Mr. Sharpe	2014-08-21 '
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. It's later in the evening than Billy's father usually stays but as it happens, he's had yet another long winded pep talk to give. Like most of his visits, his massive shoulders sag as soon as he is out into the hallway. Unlike his son, Mr. Sharpe casts a rather large shadow. His face frowns naturally, with a thoughtful, Clint Eastwood grimace. His close are worn from work and years. How a man like this could have produced someone like Billy is hard to say. Still, in face alone, their resemblance is close enough. Stepping away from the studio apartment, he hacks of cough into his hand. The older man thinks about spitting, but arches his eyebrow as he looks over his surroundings and decides not to. Trib might be cursing the seven-floor walk-up as he hits the top of the stairs, panting lightly (the light thudding preceding his appearance suggesting that he jogged up most of the way). Dressed in a pair of grey shorts and a white t-shirt that's ringed with sweat around the neck and under the arms, the boxer freezes at the sight of the senior Sharpe, his eyes narrowing keenly as he studies the older man. There's a definite resemblance to Billy, sure, but there's also a resemblance to another Sharpe Trib knows, and for some reason that puts him a bit on edge. He inhales through his nose, and makes his way towards Billy's door, offering the elder Sharpe a tight jerk of his chin and a grunt that's probably greeting-like. Mostly. Mr. Sharpe doesn't nod back. His expression doesn't change. "You must be the tough guy," he observes in his raspy growl. Both of his shaggy, silver eyebrows rise, "Am I right?" The old man doesn't move to stand in Trib's way to stop him, confident that his very presence is enough. "Makes me sound like a hired goon," Trib snorts, obliging the older man by stopping and giving him another looking over. His posture is loose, but definitely not relaxed as he scratches at his ruined nose with the fingers of his half-hand. "An' you're...what? His pop?" The old man wheezes out a sound that could be one of amusement, probing his belt loop for the car keys he has hooked there, "Makes me sound like a hillbilly," he narrows his eyes, scrutinizing. For a long time. He offers his hand to shake, but leaves it up to Trib to close the gap between them. Trib's return chuff is equally amused-like at the elder Sharpe's response, and he lifts a shoulder. "Wrong direction." The extended hand is given a long, wary look, and then Trib closes the gap to clasp it in his half hand and offer a firm squeeze before pumping it once. "Retribution Jones." "Jim Sharpe," the old man says gruffly. His handshake is respectably strong without trying to be. He isn't making a show of masculinity or trying to exert any presumed authority. He doesn't have to. "Thank you for bringing my son to the hospital." His jaw tightens and loosens reflexively and he narrows his eyes even further, "The boy's all I got." How much he knows of the incident is left unsaid, but he leaves it hang in the air as if he might know everything Billy does. He releases Trib's hand. Trib, to his credit, doesn't flinch at the reminder of that incident. He rolls his shoulder, and blinks slowly at the older man. "Least I could do," he rumbles, sniffing loudly. "He's a good guy." Looks like he's not spilling what he knows, either. The boxer tugs at his ear, then, tucking his hair behind it as he lifts a chin towards Billy's door. "You comin' or goin'? 'Cause I can come back." "Goin'," Jim jingles his keys, tossing them from one palm to the other briskly, "Keep Bill out of your trouble." The comment is said with a tinge of mutual respect as he nods his chin in a farewell. Hacking again into his fist, as he moves into the stairwell, he does spit right on the wall. Doesn't give a single fuck. Trib doesn't respond to the directive, other than to narrow his eyes a bit as he watches Jim move down the stairs. Then his eyes track to the wet place where the older man's spittle runs down the wall, and his nostrils flare ever so slightly. Moving to Billy's door, he lifts his fist and brings it down on the wood in his trademark hammering. THUMP THUMP THUMP. Inside the apartment, Billy tosses the envelope of pocket-money his father brought him onto the counter. It reads: To My Handsome Prince, Love Dad. His baggy white socks don't make a sound as he pads across the cave-like apartment to the door, answering it in fading sweatpants and a plain t-shirt, "Hey!" He smiles, vaguely gesturing with a finger, "You have good timing." He doesn't seem upset at all, diving in head and outstretched arms first for a hug. There's no consideration whether or not Trib is a 'hugger.' Trib isn't /much/ of a hugger, but he does offer a small one, curling one arm around Billy and pulling him in tight for a brief moment. "I gotta piss," he announces, extricating himself and disappearing into the bathroom without closing the door. He relieves himself loudly as he continues talking. "I don't know about good timin', though. I ran into your pop in the hall." He sniffs, and the toilet flushes before the sink runs. "I don't think he's goin' to be fuckin' joinin' my fan club or nothin'." The bathroom is barely a step away from the entrance, and still offers nearly a full view of the apartment. Ever the gentleman, Billy turns away as he closes the front door. He blushes white, "What?! He's a big softy! He surprised me by coming to visit." Out of idle nervousness, Billy tries to straighten up - picking up strewn about clothes and stuffing them into an already full hamper. "I bet he's a softy for /you/," Trib says as he emerges from the bathroom, wiping his hands on his seat. "But I figure he's probably a real hard-ass with other people." He scratches at his chin, watching Billy putter around thoughtfully. "He wasn't rude or nothin', but...." he lifts a shoulder. "Just a feelin'." He inhales through his nose, and moves into the apartment. "So, why was my timin' good?" Billy turns his back on the hamper but keeps his hands coyly behind him to fiddle and toy with the wicker - trying to hide what he'd been doing whether or not he already knows he's been seen. "It was good before I heard you ran into him," he admits sweetly under his breath, smile growing into a grin. "An' now?" Trib says in a wry rumble, eyebrows lifting. "Gone sour that quick?" Billy closes his eyes tightly, rocking his head from side to side. "It's O-KAY, now," he replies, pressing out his lips in a pursed, comedic frown. Trib sniffs. "Just okay, huh?" He folds his arms over his chest, lowering his chin to his chest. His mouth screws up, lips pursing thoughtfully as he regards the older man. "That sounds...like it needs improvin'." He lifts his half-hand to wave his fingers. "Any ideas?” Billy pushes off of the hamper, slip-sliding over to Trib on his socks. Totally and completely unintentionally he loses control and moves too fast, forcing him to throw his hands up against Trib to catch himself. He laughs. Trib catches Billy, snorting a bit -- not from the effort, but a knowing sort of snort. "That's pretty much what I figured," he rumbles, crinkling his eyes as he looks down at the blonde. "Ya dirty bastard." He picks Billy up, then, tossing him lightly over his shoulder in a fireman's carry and heading for someplace comfortable. "Okay," he says. "We'll try your thing first." Billy breathes out whatever air was in his lungs in surprise. "What is that supposed mean?" He asks between bouts of laughter. For good measure, he pounds a fist into the flat of Trib's shoulder, wrenching around his legs to make carrying him more challenging. Trib doesn't seem bothered by the slight form twisting on his shoulder. He does offer a small swat to one butt cheek as he gets near the bed. "Wasn't you wantin' to make out?" he wonders, standing and staring confusedly at the wall. Like Billy's not hanging over his shoulder. "I mean, if you'd rather wrestle, we can do that, too." He sounds so innocent about it. Billy jumps at the swat, hitting Trib with a balled up hand one more time. He has a hard time not giggling. "I was having a bad day!" He defends his intentions ...sortof. Wiggling around up there, "That wouldn't be fair! You're like, a wrestler!" "I'm a /boxer/." Trib actually sounds offended that Billy doesn't know the difference. "I ain't some showboatin' actor in hot pants." He dumps Billy on the bed, then, bouncing him off the mattress. "There's a difference, you know." He lifts his chin, then. "What kind of bad day?" he asks. "The 'subways run for shit' kind, or the 'fuck life' kind?" Billy grunts in surprise, bouncing and then letting himself lay flat and sprawled out exactly where he lands. He scoffs, "I was thinking of the kind in those little singlets or whatever on mats." At the line of questioning, his green eyes drift up towards the cracks in the ceiling, "The eff my life kind," he mumbles, eyes shifting to the side to peek over at Trib. Billy pouts. "You want to talk about it?" Trib asks, leaning over into Billy's line of sight. "Or what?" "Talk about ...probably not being able to do ...what I want to do," Billy asks, grunting again as he shifts onto his elbows to turn his doe-eyed pouting in Trib's direction, "Because I'm a mutant?" He looks away, eyes trailing the outline of a nearby lamp, "No." He kicks his socked foot at nothing, stubbornly. "Okay," Trib says, his eyes narrowing as he studies Billy's face. He tips his head to one side. "Well, if you don't want to talk, an' you don't want to wrestle...." He shrugs, and climbs on the bed, straddling Billy with his knees. "Guess that just leaves one thing, yeah?" Billy stretches back to accommodate, batting his lashes up at Trib, "You don't feel used?" He asks flirtatiously, tilting his head back to face him. Transparent as he is, it's clear he's a little relieved not be forced to talk about it ...like he probably just was right before Trib's arrival. Trib shrugs, lowering himself to his elbows to brace himself above Billy. "I'm a boxer," he says. "People use me all the fuckin' time. At least this time, it's someone I like." His mouth twitches, and the narrowing of his eyes is warmer this time. "Now you gonna flap your lips, or use 'em?" Billy's lips twitch in response, mirroring Trib's. Cat-like, he slinks forward, taking his time to bring himself level with the other man. Even still, he carefully runs his nose alongside Trib's to test the water, just barely touching lips a few times before inevitably ...and eventually, going in for the kill.