Logs:Polite Treatment

Polite Treatment
Dramatis Personae Harm, Naomi
In Absentia Kavalam, Marinov, Lael	2023-08-05 "Polite is treating someone like a person because they're a person, not because it makes their child happy."
Location <PRV> Guest Room, Tessier Residence - Greenwich Village
When the door to the guest room shuts behind them, Naomi's shoulders slump, relieved, at having made it through the interpersonal minefield of the rest of the house. Normally (or rather, yesterday, the first day of her extremely short term occupancy in this room) Naomi has been eager for the company of a Tony-Award-winning actor, an assortment of school friends, and/or her French teacher. But right now, flopping onto the bed with a groan, maybe more company is the last thing she needs. "I ain't got a clue," Naomi says, muffled, into the bedspread, "if your pa likes me or not." She sits up to shed her top -- a light green ruffled number with three-quarter sleeves and beading around the bust. She's dressed in all black underneath, a skintight tank top tucked into dark straight jeans, ankle socks that have seen better days. Naomi bundles the top into a ball and chucks it towards her backpack in one corner. "...and I feel like I oughta take Monsieur Tessier's other class to understand your mom enough to even guess if she likes me." Harm is looking possibly more harrowed than they upon being rescued from Lassiter. Then again, they'd had quite a while to recover before being reunited with Naomi, where the latest trauma is only a subway ride behind them. They're dressed in a lightweight linen tunic in pale lilac and wrap pants of the same linen in brown, a black sling bag over one shoulder with a hand-embroidered star of life patch. "I'm so sorry. I thought I had prepared you, but I underestimated them." They flop down beside Naomi, though face up instead. "Mom definitely likes you but kind of the way she likes dragons and fairies? Dad..." They cover their face with both hands, muffling a quiet groan. "I'm not sure, either. Best case scenario, he's hoping you'll turn me into a straight boy, or maybe teach me the importance of making music that sells?" "M'not a dragon," Naomi grumbles, "I sure ain't a rapper, an' I definitely ain't gonna magic you into some kinda straight person." Her brief excursion in sitting up is over -- Naomi falls down onto the bed again, legs hanging over the side to stare at the ceiling. "I think you did great prep, considerin' I never met them -- if one of 'em likes me, I think? That's a win? Just seems like they never met a --" Naomi pauses, thinks, and continues more simply, "-- someone like me before." "They've definitely never met anyone like you before." Harm turns and studies their girlfriend. "I mean, I'd never met anyone like you before I met you. And there really aren't a lot of mutants where they've lived." They chew on their lower lip. "Or Black people. I don't really know what counts as a win, but I think they're trying. They want me to be happy and, I'm happy with you, so." They roll onto their side and press their cheek against Naomi's shoulder. "They're just gonna have to deal with their...stuff." "You met, like, Marinov before me, though," Naomi deflects, "and Lael, and -- yknow. Other monsters." Harm's cheek presses up against the transition between skin and scales, the line of scales that have been growing down the back of Naomi's arm still patchy and uneven where it begins to divide her arm into dorsal and ventral sides. "I shouldn't be complaining -- they sure are trying and that ain't nothing." Naomi lets out one last frustrated raspberry before tilting her head and pressing a small kiss to Harm's forehead. "I'm real glad," is a little softer and only a touch wistful, "they want you to be happy. I'm glad they was willing to meet me." "Why shouldn't you complain, though?" Harm mooshes their face against Naomi's shoulder in a very slow nuzzle. "I don't mean...I know why you wouldn't complain to them, but I want to know. If they treated you bad in a way I didn't even realize." Their fingertips gently trace the line of new scales down Naomi's arm, and the minor irritation from their growth eases away, the blisters receding within seconds to tender but healthy skin. "I don't want to treat you bad and not realize." "...Ain't polite, not while they still adjusting," Naomi mumbles against Harm's skin, "and -- my folks, they'd be -- they --" Naomi's lips pull hard to one side of her face, little though Harm can see it. "You don't treat me bad," she says instead, shivering ever so slightly under Harm's trailing fingertips. "And I'd tell you off about it, if you did." Naomi rolls onto her side, rests her scaled forehead against Harm's. "You don't know how much your trust means t'me, after -- everything. I ain't gonna waste that." "Polite is treating someone like a person because they're a person, not because it makes their child happy." Harm traces their fingers down Naomi's other arm now, even though they have plenty of skin contact and do not need more to soothe the irritated scales on that side. "I should have told them off. You're usually so bold about being who you are." They pull back a little so they can look Naomi in the eyes. "I love that about you, and I don't want you to have to make yourself small. Not for me, not for anyone." "Polite ain't the same as respectful." Naomi reaches out when Harm pulls back, her hand landing gently at Harm's waist. "I ain't making myself small, I just -- it's different out here. It's different when it's your parents. I love you, you love them, I'd like if they liked me someday and they ain't ever gonna look past what I look like if first thing I'm telling 'em off." Her fingers curl, tugging Harm close again. "I love you," she says again, softer. "You don't gotta tell them off for me, but I love that you want to." "You're probably right," Harm murmurs. "I'm sorry I don't really get it either. But I want. If I can work up the nerve to tell them off, I'll make sure they don't blame you." Their breath catches at the curl of Naomi's fingers. Though the tug was not that hard, they roll her onto her back and themself on top, leaning down to kiss her lips. "I love you." They press another kiss to the scales on her cheek, then to her neck. Suddenly snickers, kind of muffled in the crook of her shoulder. "You wanna do some artwork?" "--love you," Naomi tries to say, cut off by suddenly being on her back, the sudden press of lips to hers. Her other hand goes to Harm's hip, then cautiously drops to the edge of their tunic, pushing it up until her hand is resting on bare skin. Snorts, even as her breathing gets shorter -- "I ain't no artist, ionno where to-- how to--." There's a little bit of nervousness in her voice where there wasn't any before. "--want to," Naomi whispers, tilting her head to kiss Harm again, long and slow. Bap. From somewhere across the room, a pillow -- soft, round, shaped like a plushy version of Captain America's iconic shield -- has been tossed to gently thwump into these incipient makeouts. Kavalam has not looked up from where he is tucked into the corner of the couch, very absorbed in a Switch with green and grey controllers. "Get a room."