ArchivedLogs:Trust

Trust
Dramatis Personae Dorian Siccavil, Parley
In Absentia	2013-11-02 Trust, truth, and tips on being out.
Location <NYC> - Village Lofts - Laundry Room
This laundry room looks as many laundry rooms do. Fluorescent lights a little too-bright, linoleum floor is chipping, lint-dusty and occasionally stained sticky with spilled detergent. A broom and dustpan in one corner encourage its users to contribute to its cleanliness, which they do with intermittent conscientiousness. A bank of quarter-fed washing machines along the wall have clear windows on their doors to watch the laundry spin and turn within. On the wall opposite, a matching row of dryers near-perpetually has at least one out of commission. A rickety folding table and chairs at one side provide a place to sit and wait. There's a dispenser on the wall that will provide single-use sized packets of detergent or fabric softener, but it is hit or miss whether it is ever in stock. It is a somewhat unseasonably warm, humid day, in New York, and that atmosphere is only amplified in the laundry room of the Lofts. A handful of the washers in the room are spinning away with the quiet slosh-swish of sudsey water, garments tumbling about as they should. A few of the driers are humming noisily, with at least one starting to whine as though it might just stop mid cycle. Or burst into flames. You never can tell with these things. There are numerous life skills that one does not acquire during a nearly decade long stint in a secret government lab. The proper use of laundry facilities is among them. Here in the laundry room of the Lofts, one of the last of the recently liberated lab rats is struggling with this deficiency. A small pile of mis-matched clothes in nearly every color of the rainbow is spilling out from a black trash bag in front of one of the few open washers, with Dorian standing protectively astride the bag and its contents, doing battle with the washing machine. He's wearing a pair of bright green swim trunks, modified to grant his tail some freedom, with no shirt covering the dark brown expanse of the fur on his back and shoulders. "Come. On. I put coins in. I did! S'what it says to do. Insert coins, so I did, now why won't it open?!" Dorian is muttering, not so quietly, tugging at the handle on the washer in question with his scarred hands, lean muscles shifting beneath the pelt. The edge of desperation starts to creep into his voice, turning to a faint whine as water starts to flood into the closed and locked machine, "No. C'mon, really? No... no... no." His tiny ears flatten into his mop of hair, as he sighs, watching helplessly. "Crap." There's a certain movie-quality manner to it; a camera angle that shows the gray smoke drifting in under the door, unnoticed, behind the main characters. This is how Parley arrives, his own laundry in a swaddle of bedsheet, slung over one shoulder like a very unflourishing and drab sneakthief of laundry. Save that it's his own clothes, so it probably can't be called theft. Well. Maybe some of Mirror's. And what few things Ferret!Joshua has been nesting in to give them a bit of weaselfunk. Some of the extra corner store towels that have needed laundering since the influx of general household activity. Whatever socks or clothes have been left around by the remaining vagrant refugees in their migration from apartment to apartment. He stands back in the doorway of the laundry room, leaning a hip against the doorway, watching Dorian. Then, at some nebulous point, he's deeper in the room, laundry set aside. Then, another moment, the sinew under his tawny rosetted fur flexes, and he's hoisted himself up onto one of the chugging (warrrm) dryers. "There's a lever." He suggests, absently. One narrow thumb and finger pointing like a mild pistol at the handle of the washer. Dorian, mid combat with the dreaded washing machine, is entirely oblivious to the second presence in the room, still trying to tug at the machine and make the water stop. The suggestion of the lever brings on another panicked flurry of motion; scarred, somewhat clumsy hands searching the surface and handle of the washer desperately. He doesn't look back to see who gave the advice, scrambling as he is to get his laundry into the machine. "Lever! Right! Thank you!" he exclaims as the door is tugged open, the water ceasing just in time to prevent it from spilling. In a mad dash of activity, Dorian flings the meager pile of clothing into the now open washer, scrambling to complete the task as though there were some sort of time limit on filling the machine. A handful of tablets - presumably compact laundry detergent - is flung into the waiting machine, likely overkill for the small size of the load, in most cases. Once the clothes are in, he slams the door of the washer shut, leaned over to watch the water filling in for a long moment, like a child with their face pressed against a window witnessing the first snow fall of the year. His lean form does a little shimmy of glee at the minor victory, pride, relief, and a healthy sense of accomplishment glowing in his overactive mind. Certain that the washing machine is going to actually wash, Dorian stands up, turning to face Parley with a relieved look. The pleased look, however, quickly turns to one of shock; fear, and a sense of gut-wrenching anxiety starts to creep into Dorian's exceedingly bubbly thoughts, his dark eyes widening as he regards Parley. Stumbling backwards a half step, Dorian presses his back to the rumbling washing machines, unable or unwilling to look away from Parley. "Ei.... Einen," he stutters the name, trembling nervously as he does. The newer name he had been told has fled his mind, though there's a desperate attempt to scrape through recent memories for it. Even as the name is saught, older memories are dredged up, of the labs, of scientists, a younger Parley. More fear, more anxiety. It's hard to tell what, if any, reaction Parley has for the turmoil that stirs up in Dorian's mind like silt in a stream bed. He's crossed his legs on the washer, propped an elbow on knee. Rested his chin in palm, which makes a loose cage of fingers over his mouth. "-Parley," he semi-interrupts Dorian, cool-brisk, but with his tone low it still almost feels a suggestion than an insistence. Even when he adds, eyes drifting past Dorian to the far wall, "please." For a long moment, this seems like all he intends to say. Until he adds, vaguely, "You'll need to learn to hide it better." There's a long pause. "-you've always had a hard time with that." "Parley," Dorian corrects himself in a quiet, still somewhat shakey voice, bobbing his head in apology, "Sorry." He stays silent for a long moment, his chest rising and falling slowly as he takes deep, steadying breaths, trying to calm himself down from the near-panic state he had hit. "Sorry," he apologizes again, for no apparent reason, his mind starting to receed from the dark spiral of worry - a quiet echo of playfulness dancing around, invitingly, making a swirling dance of colors through his already chaotic mind. One hand raises to ruffle through his unruly hair, the ears vanishing amidst the dark brown mop, as he looks up curiously at Parley, not fully understanding. "Hide it? I... I don't quite get what you mean," he admits, his posture starting to relax a little bit, looking down at the light coating of fur on his bare chest and abdomen, glancing at his ruined hands, "I... I can wear a shirt. Not right now. They're all kinda soggy and covered in soap 'cause I needed to wash them." Now, Parley smiles. It's a vague, wearied thing behind prisonbar fingers. "Not that." The warm weather has permitted him him to wear his sleeveless clothes with the windows cut out in the back, to allow the bristly guard hairs marching down his spine to breathe. The fur, for now, remains laid down mild and smooth. "The..." he describes a vague circle in the air, in Dorian's vague direction, "mnh. Posturing." His eyelids drift slightly lower, as though a gentle breeze were drifting past him; the worried playfulness finds no resistance at his barriers - and in the space of the room, though he sits mild and Dorian presses away, in the instinctive realm of presence, there is only 'Dorian' here. And, as Parley's eyes slide softly closed, surrendering ground and allowing it to wash through him, wash /over/ him, that feeling of gained territory in Dorian's favor only grows stronger. The playfulness is fed /back/ into Dorian's mind. Warming it. "I can show you." Dorian nervously ruffles the thick fur on his upper arms with a hand, confusion still on his youthful features at the explanation. "I... still don't get it," he says quietly, leaning against the washers, his shoulders dropping slightly, further telegraphing the uncertainty in his mind. A spike of worry works its way through his thoughts quickly, and is gone - though he glances towards the door, the momentary concern that the scientists would be through any moment to drag him back away for failing to understand. Or failing to do laundry right. The nervousness, however, is soothed by the playful feedback - and Dorian slowly pushes away from his position at the washing machines, curiousity and a continuing quest for play rippling his mind. Dark eyes locked on the other young man, Dorian approaches cautiously, tiptoeing on bare, webbed feet, small fuzzy ears perked forward. As he gets closer, the playfulness seems to grow stronger, though he keeps from voicing it aloud. Head cocked to the side in a mix of curiosity and confusion, Dorian stands just a short distance from Parley's seat now, "Show me?" He asks a second question after a momentary pause, thinking it over slowly, "Play?" For all of this, Parley's eyes remain serenely closed, a modified Thinking Man statue seated silently on high so that Dorian's hesitant approach is allowed to happen in an unobstructed sort of privacy. There is no resistant hindbrain friction that argues another person present to bounce echoes off the walls. The room is Dorian's. The increase of playfulness, jumping winking sparks lighting up in Parley, is rewarded by a responding energy, neutralized and sterile but familiar yet with Dorian self-smell. "You could say it is a game, in a way," he allows thoughtfully. And then, still watching only with a mind's eye, he asks, "What are you feeling, right now?" Dorian seems quite comfortable at this point, with Parley's presence in the laundry toom - his dark eyes stay focused on his face, but the anxiety and panic that had clouded the chettering mindscape before has now melted away. All that remains is the sense of wanting to play, to be friends, to have friends, to have fun, to learn, to explore - most of it seems to focus on Parley, who, despite his camouglage, is still the subject of Dorian's attention. It's a jumbled mashup that seems to swirl around with a dizzying dance of colors as he continues his slow creep towards Parley, the slow approach apparently taking considerably restraint. Ultimately Dorian arrives directly in front of where Parley sits, carefully resting scarred hands on the running dryer to look up at the other man, his eyes wide as he studies Parley with a rapt curiosity. The question gets a confused head tilt from the young otter mutant, his ears perked forward at attention. "Feeling?" he parrots, rocking back on his heels for a moment, though his hands stay on thr rumbling dryer, "Confused? Nervous." He pauses for a moment, perking up again at the thought of the game, and perhaps also in further answer to the question, "Play?" Parley pushes a hrff of air through his nose. Closer now, visibly, the flex of muscles in his shoulders slowly ease with each gradual exhale. Still and quiet to let him near. "You're honest," he says wryly. Gradually, one of his hands rises like a tendril of smoke and gently, cool fingertips brush the surface of Dorian's brow. "Most people are playing. Even if they wouldn't call it that. Have you been watching?" His voice is light and mild, eyes still shut off, features relaxed. "What does a person look like, when they're nervous?" Dorian watches Parley's movements, curiously, tracking the twitch of fur, the slow inhale and exhale, just quietly observing. At least - externally, he is quiet - internally he is vibrantly curious and playful as ever - if his tail had that level of motor control, it would be wagging not unlike an excited puppy's. "They know if I'm not honest. I get in trouble if I lie, if I don't do what I'm told. They keep me alone," he answers, mentally withdrawing from the suddenly recalled mental image of faceless, masked orderlies in rebreathers and goggles, gloved hands reaching for him. An empty room with nothing and no one to interact with. He shudders visibly and mentally, closing his eyes to try and banish the thought. The touch from Parley startles him, and he looks up at the other man in mild surprise, reaching one hand up to touch lightly against Parley's brow, mirroring the action. "Depends on the person. Depends on the test. Most are resigned. Most just curl up and try to hide. Some shiver. Some cry. Some don't want to play, or talk. Most don't want to talk - they clam up?" he prattles off an answer, scarred fingertips still lightly touched to Parley's brow as he does, mental images of tests and test subjects floating readily through his forethought. These things Parley must know; he was /how/ they knew, at times, when others were lying. But he doesn't twitch to it, save a flutter of closed lashes at the feel of touch to his brow. "Do you like it? When they shiver?" His fingers turn over, showing touch. Showing contact. And he trails the back of his knuckles softly down the side of Dorian's jaw. His head tips to the side, in invitation for the other to do so as well. Dorian's eyes slowly close when Parley's knuckles brush along his jaw, a thrill of pleasure at being in physical contact with another again dancing through his mindscape, further questions of 'play?' echoed back in quiet response. As if on cue, he trembles slightly, tilting his head to expose his jaw and throat to Parley, an ingrained reaction, vaguely submissive. Dorian lightly traces his fingertips along Parley's brow to his temple, hand turning over to gingerly trace along his jaw with slightly bent knuckles. Dorian's mind wanders briefly, at the sight of his hands, to a memory of a test, of a girl who lashed out when nervous; of blood, and pain, and then bright surgical lights - he flinches slightly at this memory, eyes opening to look up at Parley, another shiver rippling through the thick fur of his back. "I... no. Yes. Sometimes," Dorian struggles, his mind in turmoil, memories stirring up amidst the echoes of 'play', "Sometimes when they shiver, they need hugs, and I give hugs. Sometimes I'm not allowed to. I don't like when they're scared. I help. They shiver, because they're scared, but I help." His curiosity returns, watching Parley intently to see how he responds to the touch, wide eyes studying the other man's face as he falls quiet. "You help." Parley repeats back. Possibly confirmation. Possibly just musing, delicately tipping his head into Dorian's touch, a curious second game indeed, of give for give. Take for take. He matches Dorian with it, baring the side of his neck, where a pulse beats steady, thick rhythms in the wan laundryroom light. The pulse of 'play?' is given back, a pulse of... if not 'yes', then certainly '/isn't/ it?' It does tease, a breathless skate of thrill triggering off a bright, /clean/-filtered reflection of Dorian's own pleasure back into his system when the darker memories return. It doesn't subsume them, or redirect them; the memories are unaltered. But it seeks to subtly offer, to remind. Distract, perhaps, back to this moment. With it, he gently curls his fingers around Dorian's jaw and moves it back down. Where it's /not/ bared and naked to him. His eyes have opened, finally. Dark enough brown to be black, and steady as slate stone. "That's the game, in a way. To see what one another needs, and how to help them gain it. Most of the people here want to shiver, too. To pull in. But they don't, because they can't. And they can't, because they don't /want/ to." A faint blush, accompanied by a pang of disappointment, colors Dorian's thoughts when Parley tilts his jaw back down, his fingertips trailing past Parley's jaw and delicately along the path of the beating pulse, barely touching at all. Quickly drawing a deep breath, Dorian relaxes at the redirected shimmer of pleasure, eyes blinking shut for a moment, just breathing deeply. His mind focusing entirely on this moment, the subtle vibrations of 'play' coming through in the relative mental quiet, thrilling at the teasing response. He seems hesitant to move his hand away from Parley's neck and jaw, still reveling in the contact. Dorian opens his eyes again, looking Parley square in the eyes, intent, curious, and focused on Parley, listening. "But... they want to? And they don't? And they can't?" Dorian repeats much slower, his confusion obvious on his features. "But... people don't always want help. 'Specially outside. Can you help those who don't want help?" he questions, half musing, half questioning. "Mnhhh I suppose," Parley's voice offers a slight shivery breath to it, cool tranquility contradicted by the mammal warmth in his skin, the warbeat pounding silently in his blood. The touch allowed Dorian imparts these secrets, like a rumble of purr. "-You limit the amount they feel they need to help you? It's really up to you." /Hook/. He fits his hand around the back of Dorian's neck, cupping the low bowl of his skull, and draws him in, smooshes him, head and shoulders, down towards his lap with a bemused ripple fed into Dorian's mind. "But. I can tell you that out here, they don't mind if you don't display your anxiety. And many would rather you didn't." Dorian’s fingertips trail from the warm, strong pulse point along to the border of the tawny fur along Parley’s neck, curiously brushing his fingers against the hairs there. His mind is questioning, asking permission to touch, to learn, flavoring the near constant questioning of ‘play?’ with a barely understood need to touch and be touched. If a response had been forming in Dorian’s mind, it is lost when Parley cups the back of his head; he looks up questioningly, confusion on his features and in his mind. Despite his confusion, however, there is no resistance when Parley presses his head down, the sinews of his neck melting against the touch. Dorian continues to collapse further, and rests his head against Parley’s hip, shoulders collapsed against his lap, curiously nuzzling the other man’s abdomen, hands dropping to rest atop the dryer on either side of Parley’s hips. The bowed position exposes the entirety of Dorian’s back, covered in dark, thick fur interrupted in a handful of places with the neat lines of a surgical incision, or the harsher, jagged edge of another injury. His thoughts swirl with curiosity, his breath becoming shallower as he mulls over the situation: wanting to do what he is expected to, to please, to be helpful. Parley, in turn, gives him no such helpful signals, no prompts, no expression of need. He sits patiently still, silent. Neither tense nor clenched, allowing Dorian to nestle - or not - as he might choose. Or perhaps /decide/ which he’d like, in his own time. He rests a hand very loosely atop Dorian’s shoulder, one thumb pad lightly smoothing down the fur there. And unseen, from his vantage above, he’s looking over Dorian’s scarring, cataloguing and counting with a reserved gaze. His tone is remote, as though from a great distance, “There are too many people, out here. You pick and choose, who you trust. Who you want to trust you. And the rest,” aa soft bristle of coldness passes through his voice, formed curiously in a thin smile. “Give them nothing.” Dorian seems quite content to just lay here, head and shoulders rested in Parley’s lap in a limp, malleable fashion. The anxiety and nervousness that had clouded his mind previously seems to have been soothed, even the insistent begging for play has quieted as he stays where he was pushed. The only movement, other than the slow, incredibly deep breaths he now takes, is to wrap his arms lightly around Parley’s waist in a gentle hug. He buries his face further against the side of Parley’s stomach, simply reveling in the physical contact; uncertainty still echoes through his mind as to what Parley wants him to do, confused by the lack of feedback or response. There is a faint shiver of discomfort at the coldness in Parley’s voice, and Dorian squeezes tighter against his abdomen, mentally curious, questioning, searching for a meaning. The idea of ‘trust’ bubbles forth images of a matronly looking female scientist, of hugs, and comfort. “S’what I was s’possed to do,” Dorian says, the words muffled by his face being pressed into Parley’s side, “Gain trust. Talk. Play. If I didn’t, I got in trouble.” Memories swirl up of failed tests, failed interactions, and the resulting isolation rooms, hazy pain, causing him to flinch, a faint whimper escaping his throat. “Always was s’posed to trust. So, so many people out here now. Big city,” he says, feeling suddenly small, and alone. Dorian’s arms tighten again around Parley’s waist, hands creeping under the hem of the other man’s shirt, fingers searching for the tawny fur of his back. A survey of Dorian’s back reveals an even half dozen scars of varying side interrupting the pelt. Visible just above the waistband of his modified swim trunks, on either side of his spine and tail are the ends of a thin, clearly surgical scar, curving around the base of the tail, tapered at the ends and vanishing below the waist band and presumably around his tail. A more jagged scar curves around his left side, along the curve of his rib cage, vanishing towards his front, the thin line of skin red like a healed burn. Four of the scars are small, almost easy to miss, neatly round patches - one at the base of his neck, near the spine, one each near his armpits, with the fourth just at the base of his spine, above the base of his tail. There are at least two more jagged interruptions to the fur of his tail, wrapping around the appendage as though some sort of fiery tendril had ensnared it. “It’s what you were supposed to do.” Parley repeats – agrees? - vaguely, looking down at the scarred young man embracing him with his mouth, for a single moment, awkwardly /compressed/, even if it isn’t visible from Dorian’s position. His hand hovers for a moment and then… sets itself on Dorian’s back. Pat. Pat? It ruffles the fur. He arches his spine to help loosen the lower hem of his shirt, to allow skin to find skin, skin to find /fur/, his own thinner, short and the sort of softness you may need to call 'glossy' - only smooth when pet with the grain. The pin-prickly guard hairs make it so slightly spiky any other way. It's grows thicker, at the spine. And stiffer. A potential ridge. The skin here is a trace loose, sliding over the harder muscle layer beneath like it's not entirely attached. And looser yet the further up his back, nearing the proverbial scruff. He speaks calm and but with no quarter, “And now, it isn’t. It won’t help you, out here. Not if you can’t control it.” His ruffling transitions into pressing the heels of his palms down against the muscle clusters below either of Dorian’s back, and then sliding down either side of Dorian’s spine. Kneading muscle beneath, eyes drifting up to stare across the room. Maybe he’s reading the Laundry Don’ts and Does (sic). Educating himself on the washing practices of the building. “It will take time. But you’ll need to start practicing. Practice ‘playing’ it, here in the Lofts. With the people you know. No one here will get angry with you for not wanting to do something. And if someone does,” pet, smooth, “if someone tries to make you do something you’re not comfortable with.” He curls a hand around Dorian’s cheek, coaxing him to lift his head. To meet his heavy-lidded gaze. “Come and tell me. And I will make it stop.” Not ‘try to make it stop’. Here in the warm laundry room light, it’s said as fact. Dorian’s searching fingers dig into Parley’s fur with a reckless abandon, ruffling and smoothing without particular concern about the guard hairs, his fingers slowly kneading at the flesh with gentle pressure. A thrill of contented pleasure skates through Dorian’s mind at the hands on his back, a soft, squeaking purr rumbling through his body in response. His back arches slightly into the touch, pressing his face firmly against Parley’s side, genuinely happy for a long moment, the pleas of ‘play’ finally silenced amidst the contentment. The disturbance of the fur, however, likely brings forth a light, somewhat earthy smell, vaguely reminiscent of patchouli or a forest after a rain storm. At the touch to his cheek, Dorian leans against Parley’s hand, eyes still closed for a long moment. He opens them slowly, blinking up at Parley with a contented sigh, his eyes slowly coming back into focus. At first, the statements bring confusion, and then a touch of uncertain resolve, a new, unfamiliar feeling to the young man. “I… ok,” he says, his voice wavering faintly. “I’ll, I’ll try.” Where fingers dig in, they’ll feel Parley’s flesh pucker and constrict in localized patches up and down his spine, small muscle-constrictions that follow a ripple of fur that stands up in its pores at the stirring, the columns of muscle to either side of his vertebrae hard and healthy and unbowing. His respiration has slowed to long, even inhale, constricted exhale, eyes closed – it’s a loose closing, lashes laid down to cheeks, though the skin to either side is slightly taut in some nameless concentration. Lower, further down his back, should reckless fingers find it, there is a bare spot, in his fur, towards the base of his spine; waxy-slick scar tissue roughly the size of a half dollar. “Good,” faintly rasped, he rewards those words with combing fingers, reflected velveteen shimmers of Dorian’s own contentedness, fed back to him. Resolve, too – like holding up a mirror, to show him this tiny fragment of what it may be like. To be confident. To be determined. Dorian’s kneading becomes gentler, softer, at the feeling of the muscle contractions, the faintest giggle escaping his lips as he feels the ripple of fur standing on end along Parley’s back. Happy memories stir up of a childhood spent on a farm, happiness at the discovery of a litter of kittens in the barn which he and his sister were allowed to keep. More than a little surprise ripples through his mind at the memory, as though shocked he actually could recall something so far distant from his current situation. Regardless, he is a bit softer in his petting, going /with/ the direction of the fur, instead of against it. His fingers just barely graze the upper edge of the snarl of scar tissue, but move away quickly enough, a spark of confused curiosity wavering through the contentedness. Head tilted slightly, his tagged ear twitches vaguely, a flash of silver amidst the dark curls of his hair, before he rests his head back against Parley’s lap. Dorian seems to melt beneath the combing of his fur, a squeaking sigh muffled by the fact he has buried his head in Parley’s lap again. Regardless, amidst the contentment and the curiosity, there’s the tiniest little bit of resolve that seems to have taken hold. And, still looking across the room, at the Don'ts and Does, at a spider climbing the wall, at the dusty paneled ceiling, Parley leans back and for the duration of the spin cycle, he absently grooms Dorian's melty boneless back and lets the other's warm presence, for a small while, dominate the room.