June 15, 2005.06.15.05. - lick it clean [tristan][new pack warehouse - general chicago room]
(tristan)
They were charged with finding the new packhouse to cover the other side of the territory, and they did. Once it was checked out, and Jukebox made the necessarily arrangements, Tristan’s been working to make it more… homey. Granted, it’s as bad as the first factory was, and needs a bit of work. Decker’s redone many of the broken shingles on the roof, and Tristan has added his touches here and there. Clean clothing, made up sleeping pallets, and of course, food and beer.He does this while Decker is elsewhere, of course, since he’s still avoiding the Modi when he can. No use getting into his face so soon after smarting off at him – but that doesn’t mean he won’t do his duty. Always one for doing 110%, our pretty boi. The best damn kinswomen the Eagles ever had… just ask Imogen, she’ll admit it.
And so, we find him here, again, taking a break from the cleaning up of the litter and garbage that had covered most of the joint when they moved in. Dressed in just his jeans, and boots, he’s sitting on a crate, his baby, his beloved violin, tucked under his chin against bare shoulder, a soft mournful lullabye pouring from his fingertips, sliding from the strings as the bow is drawn expertly across them. His eyes are closed, his lips curved into that almost little smile that proves music is soothing the [not so] savage beast once again.
(james)
it's just as bad as the first factory
the Ahroun? may well consider it worse
but the variable existing accoutrements add up sufficient
and they can improvise the restGnawers, after all.
so somewhere between dragging the last planks in for makeshift cots
hauling in the third-hand trunk-freezer from a dive over on third
gathering semi-coordinating strings of semi-reparable Christmas lights
hosing any hint of .... funk ..... from a GoodWill couch
dragging the trash into truckbed and towards nearby dumpster
pausing long enough to wolf (........ ha!) down half a MeatLover's pizza
and washing it down with three beers and a half-joint
James disappeared
leaving the prettyboi kin on his own in the vast, still-empty industrial shellfilling the soul-less warehouse with mourning strains of life
fine, mystical notes darting to the furthest dark corners
redefining their void by explanation something had been there
a particle soundwave just loud enough to be of note
something to brush away the desertionat least until James re-appears
one of those super-dollys from Home Depot in tow
loaded with a randomized toolbox and one misfit generator
it needs work, allright, and the Ahroun is not your average mechanic
would've been easier to go repo their existing deisel-run beastwhen severing from the old haven, he'll break all ties completely
there's a smear of grease across his cheekbone
following the lines of skull right into the shortened mop of dreads
makes the animal look downright domestic.... considering
(tristan)
Considering…The dolly has a squeaky wheel, but even if it hadn’t, he’d have known his brother had returned to the room. The tingle of [anticipation, longing] rage moves before him, ever growing as the moon swells, yet not so much as to suffocate. Yet. He doesn’t open his eyes, however, nor does he stop playing. Not yet. For even now, this is his one constant. The music is the only lover that has not left, that is always ready, that begs for the touch of his fingertips when everything that he loves shuns the thought.
He and his music are one – inseparable, entwined, beautiful.
However, there is work to be done. There is always work to be done, and he lets the notes slide away to oblivion, finding deaths solace in the far corners of the room as he pulls beloved instrument down, and glances over at James and his burden. A sideways smirk and shake of his head that sends tangled curls into disarray, tickling under his jaw, along his chin. “Where’d ya find that one?” Curiosity. Unfortunately, the kin still knows next to nothing about machinery and thus won’t be much help setting the generator to rights again.
(He’s a musician, Jim, not a mechanic!)
(james)
Tristan doesn't open his eyes, nor does he stop playing
far be it from James to (overly) interruptas the dolly's wheels squick their last squeak
the lanky guttermutt's weight shifts to rest against a steel panel
balancing a Camel 100 between his lips to bear the brunt of Zippo's attention
lazy rings of smoke coiling towards the ceiling in time with the swelling notes
riding the tide of imaginary clouds rising to curtain equally swelling moon“Wou’yeh belei’e uh Pennysayers?”
cigarette still perched on lower lip does little to clarify his reply
not that..... it was expressed in anything beyond sidelong murmur, anyway
deep umber eyes settled on page 12 of the tattered owner’s manual
dutiful squint taking him all the way through page 15’s diagnostic diagram
before thumb flips back a couplafew pages to start the chapter over once againremembering quite well what he did to get the last generator running
(tristan)
He chuckles, and shrugs. “With you, I’d believe nigh anything.” He bends down to the open case at his feet, tucking the violin back inside with a loving brush of fingertips across the gleaming wood. No matter what he loses, what he gains, what can go to shit – his violin is always in pristine, babied, perfect condition. You can muss the boy, you can dirty the boy, you can even break the boy – but touch that precious violin, and you’ve declared war.He’s already declared a special out of the way shelf his for the violin here, and that’s where it goes once tucked in for the night. Up high enough to be out of raging Modi’s line of sight and thus easily forgotten.
Once put away, the lanky gnawer crosses the floor to study the generator, reaching up to snag camel from it’s precarious perch on lower lip, taking a long drag and replacing it as he exhales. He scratches his jaw, and shakes his head. “Times like this I miss Roxanne.” Murmured, slightly. She’d have had it up and running in no time. But then he shrugs and claps his hands together. “Alright! Instruct me. Which doodad shall we connect to what thingamabob?”
(james)
prettyboi strolls across cement slab floor and snags Camel from its perch
the Tribal Elderman’s lips curl back in what could be a nasty snarl with the Full so close
rumbling some sound of discontent around the middle of his sternum or thereabouts
clawing blindly in a vage direction to reclaim the stick that shall ne’er bring cancer
his show of prowess decidedly cut short as the cig’s replaced anyway“Yeh?”
head tips to send shortened dreads splaying towards gravity’s relentless call
glance finally finding it’s way from the manual to catch his brother’s perplexed shrug
any thoughts to Roxanne’s presence or lack-thereof spoken only in smoke signal on exhale
finer details of such thoughts jailed safely behind the liquid orbs of dark eyes
and the flashing snap that brings a piece of paper inbetween their line of sight“Guy ga’e me ‘nsssstruc’shuns. Said o’ly one’r two things need tink’rin’ ‘fore it run.” broad shoulders roll in flexing shrug, casting aside the tension slowly growing with Luna’s belly high above “Wha’ssit say a do firs’?”
(tristan)
“Call a mechanic?” Quips the pretty boy, who’s making a rather good show of not being [hot and] bothered by that little show of growly prowess. He takes the instructions, makes a show of putting them upside down and studying them, then righting them with a bit of a chuckle. He crouches, then, and queries “He say which one’r’two things?” in a mutter as he smooths out the paper, and reads.Umhm. Umhm. Gotcha. Yeah. Ok then.
Absent mutters under his breath as he [perhaps deliberately] refocuses his energies to the task at hand. Sliding to a crouch by the generator, dark eyes swing between the instructions, and the machine, and the instructions and he reaches forward, and promptly smacks a knuckle on some poking out bit that he didn’t notice. Muttering, he lifts his hand to his mouth, and points with the other. “Says to deal with that bit first, clean up and make sure the connections are tight..” or something. It’s really hard to understand what he said exactly what with his knuckle in his mouth and all.
Course, it’s likely it’s all bullshit anyway. The boy can be hopelessly inept.
(james)
James’ left hand flips to signal drumroll
obviously - the step past calling a mechanic
the one that’s for ridiculously brave novices who know not what they are doing
yeh.... the one about that bit and the thingamajigger needing cleaning and so forth
thumb and index finger circling an “OK, Bozz!” once it’s prattled offwhich may just likely be a line of bullshit that means absolutely nothing to the task at hand
but it sounds reasonable enough to the Ahroun
scowling a rather motherly chide at the now-injured pretty boy
crouch serving to push Tristan aside with steely-toned shoulder
and..... making sure to clean up that bit with... uh......seems he forgot rags...
so the lower hem of his grey t-shirt will have to do
it’s used in leiu of a wrench to tighten the bit back onto the thing securely
dark glance peering out from under his brows
grease smeared over the lower half of his face as back-of-hand-itch turns to flicking the ashes off his smoke“That’ih?”
(tristan)
He can’t help the chuckle at that motherly look, and the nudge of steely shoulder that could, and nearly does, knock him over. Would have, too, if not for the subtle shift of weight that had him bracing for it, to push back just enough.Not so easily swayed, this pretty boy. Not even by a…grease smudged Ahroun. Honest.
He moves aside though, and watches, eyes flickering from the instructions and drawings and the work in progress, before nodding, and then pointing again. “There, there and there.” And he reaches under and tightens something himself, and jiggles something else, and checks to (ahHA!) make sure they’re fuel there too. A fingerful of grease, however, reaches out and smudges across his brother’s bicep with a little playful smirk. “whoops.”
“Ok, so, that… might do it..” He promptly forgets about the grease left on his finger, and scratches his chin.
(james)
a journey so slow to closure it feels as it spanned years
a city so long forsaken it feels as foreign soil
a pack so strewn to chaos it feels as familiarity is strung thing
perhaps his nudge was not meant to move Tristan quite so far away
a revelation found within the easy proximity of familial bondone that will never judge nor test nor punish
simply... accept....just as James bears the burden of his newest Rite of Wounding without protest
brow cocked towards springy dreads as he surveys the “damage” across muscular ridge
then as gaze lifts.... his head tilts... and hand gestures Tristan closer“Jus’ mark’ y’self.” freehand closes the distance by force, broad palm wrapping over trapezius and flat out hauls the prettyboi within reach “Y’r losin’ yeh touch, Ma.”
the Ahroun does a right pitiful job of cleaning smudged grease away
adding insult to injury as his grasping hand is sure to leave a filthy “pawprint” over shoulder
in fact - he doesn’t run calloused finger across any skin remotely near the kinsman’s smudged chin
delightedly drawing a oily black happy face across Tristan’s flesh, instead
complete with clown eyebrows above the growing scowl
heel of his palm hitting cheekbone apple drawing a smile as easily as midnight blush
luckily... he ran out of grime before getting to the application of lipstick which would have been a tragedy for sureescaping in a roll-bounce-bolt dance number that has him fleeing across factory floor
(tristan)
One that accepts, without question, always, even though he aches, even though he has questions, even though he may need the answers every bit as much as he fears them. He just. Doesn’t. push. [but oh, how he aches] his grin lingers, teasing unrepentant across his lips as the “damage” is surveyed.Even then, he moves closer, when beckoned. Perhaps he should have know better- perhaps he does, but none the less, he succumbs to that grasp, even as he’s hauled closer with a “Gah!” Such a pitiful cleaning! And if he said he wasn’t laughing, or enjoying the touch, he’d likely be lying, even as he starts to struggle, with sputtered protests…
And yes, good thing indeed….
“Oh. You will SO pay for that…” He pauses by the cooler, grabs the nearest can, and gives chase, shaking said can as he runs, long legs covering the floor easily…can aimed, and as soon as he’s within reach, the top popped, sending a very shaken up soda foam springing toward his bro…. “I hear there’s an ingredient in here that’ll take care of grease…” the laughing explanation as he skids to a stop and heads the other way.
Paybacks are usually hell…
(james)
paybacks are usually hellthe tidal rush of foam does its threatened damage to douse the fullblood Gnawer
not before he managed to get his hands on the hose drug in from the back-lot spigot
still primed from the hose-down hoe-down with the GoodWill prize couch
all it takes is a firm grip on the nozzle to send a defensive torrent back towards attacking kinsman“S’call’ wat’r!” cackled above the sound of rushing water that pools to hinder Tristan’s hasty retreat “’n how dare yeh was’e goo’ beer!”
(tristan)
He…. shrieks like a little girl at that first hit of cold water… “BEER? How DARE you even…in..in…insinuate!” and he is slipping on the water, and trying to get away, even as he flings the can back at him……one of Kemp’s soda’s.
Whoops.He’s still laughing though, as he finally gives up, and just stalks his bro, taking the full force of the cold cold water, and opening his arms wide.. “Aw, it’s good to have you home… comere…” At which time he rushes that last bit and wraps up James in a tight… cold, wet, greasy hug…
(james)
the empty can’s batted out of the air
shiny aluminum finally getting the Ahroun’s attention long enough to identify
..... ooooh, soda. Right-o.
it allows for the jettisonned stream of water to lag, just a bit
enough so that Tristan’s fight to plow forward is minimal
crooked grin appearing somewhere above the scatter-spray sheild of mistand finally, the Fostern relents
nozzle aimed to the side as his own arms spread wide for heartfelt hug
long arms wrapping around the kinsman like bands of hardening steel
even going so far as to add the manly thump of fist on scapula“S’good uh be’ome.” murmured in genuine sigh spreading a kind of relief through his battle-hardened frame, it’s enough to field deception as fingers drop to waistband and shove. the still. running. hose. down. the prettyboi’s. jeans. “Know wha’, Tris?” the Elderman pulls back just a tad to gaze up at his rightfully shocked brother, wearing a wholly unrepetant - if crooked - grin, for his right hand still holds both the hose and the violinist’s belt twined in strong fingers so that boi isn’t going anywhere fast though the embrace surely soaks both greasy Gnawers “Think I sor’a miss yuh.”
the phrase practically serene
if it..... weren’t for the playful gleam in deep umber
or the firm pat on Tristan’s ass splooshing his back pockets
or the near-freezing waterfall hosing down the inside of his jeans(tristan)
The genuine sigh brings another smile, as fingers slide into dreads, and then..Oh and THEN…
Well, that’s one way to send the boys up into hiding, seeking warmer climates as he’s DRENCHED with the positioning of the hose, the cold ass water [haha! Pun so intended] SOAKING him and his brother, as fingers tighten in dreads, and a shiver wracks through the poor pretty boi as he gasps “So….not….fair…” as any attempts to squirm away are thwarted, succeeding only in bringing him closer to James…
Finally getting a hand on the hose…
Ahem. Water hose. And crimping it enough to slow the flow to a mere trickle as he shivers…. “an jus’ how yeh plan on warmin me back up, brother-mine..” There is no mistaking that tease [challenge?] in deep dark eyes, is there… Ye got’im, now whatcha gonna do wit’im…
(james)
the Ahroun’s lip curls in a smug smirk
neither pulling against nor leaning into the firm grip on shortened dreads
his chest granite against the slighter male’s wracking shiver
(.... heartbeat thumping kettle drum.....)
deep earthen eyes glittering in light of teasing challenge“Yew go’ me sticky firs’.” smirk. chuff. sneer. “Shou’ be assssskin’ how yew’re gunna make ih uppa me.”
(tristan)
heart beats under granite chest, thumping kettle drum that he’d likely notice, if it weren’t for his own… and the fact he’s shivering, the grip in dreads and the press of his taller, yet leaner form close as if actively seeking warmth offered by the rage burning under his brothers skin… [...as if? Who is he trying to kid…]he laughs, fingers grasping that waterhose tight, keeping the waterflow to an absolute minimum while the nozzle remains in James’ possession. And with a slightly wicked grin of his own, and cocks a brow… “Good point…. So… how am I make ih uppa you…” playful, that mimic of slurred speech…. Wickedly playful…
(james)
wickedly playful, that mimic of slurred speech
it’s met by the presence of sharp canines further gnarling syntax
a moon-driven shift begun then immediately pulled back in line
Rage rippling to offer sought warmth in deliberate spite as it’s taken away“Dunna.” it’s crooned across Fostern’s impeded tongue “Cuz I know ya dunn need help warmin’ up.” embracing arm tightens in point, for surely the predator can hear prey’s trepidous pulse, or perhaps simply draw upon the telltale scents leaking from flesh to collaborate the undertow tale... what of it he can simply sense is hidden behind the animal’s coveting mask “Maybe I shou’ test yeh..... seein’ a how you’ve all thessse month’ a conjure sumthin’ uh.”
chin tips up - Eagle style - in reciprocal challenge
(tristan)
ho…lee….hell. Rage ripples, surges and is taken away again, and lashes fall over dark eyes, kissing cheeks before lifting again to meet James’ gaze, pulled tighter against the iron strength of the predatory who’s more then in control of his prey, the swallow slow, and deliberate, as he forces moisture down his throat.He’s never made a move. He’s made himself more then willing, more then available, he’s all but practically begged, he’s done everything to tread close to that line but never cross until invited. He knows that it is obvious, he knows that the others see it as well, and perhaps applaud his restraint. But it has been a long. Long. Long. Time…
And there’s that challenge, the lift of Eagle’s chin, the glint deep in those gaze, and maybe deep in his own eyes there’s something too, pushed back, hidden away, too raw, to uncontrolled to allow more then that all too brief glimpse.
Finally… “Maybe yeh should.” Barely breathed, though it seems that he won’t… some war going on inside, before finally the grin starts again… spreading across his lips, as he presses closer… and in a moment’s decision that he may (not) regret later, fingers tighten in those dreads and pulls James closer, closing negligible distance to lay claim to his lips to deliver the slightest hint on the kind of welcome home he wants to give…
Despite everything, because of everything – he’d still give his absolute all to James, no questions asked, no explanations, no expectations.
(james)
Tristan has held true to his word and never once made a move
there’s been no push, no complaint, nothing more than open invitation
waiting for the day the Ahroun believes himself ready to cross the definitive line
how many others have quietly wondered at the depth of the raggedyman’s blindness?
how hard was it to see that his brother offered the very thing James seeks above all else?no questions
no explanations
no expectations
no requirements
no obligations
no. strings. attached.the prettyboi’s love is unfuckingconditional
and maybe that’s what terrifies the Full Moon more than anything else
something so totally alien a concept surrounding this wholehearted gift
with Jenna - there was consequence
with Rune - there was consequence
with Tristan - there....... is what?
it’s something the guttermutt has not yet been able to realize
perpetually expecting agony to follow the footsteps of ecstacy
(......would there be a darker day beyond the bigot’s disapproval? would even that mean anything in the end, Jamey-boy?)
hiding behind the greif of hoping his mate would someday return
too hesitant to take that risk in fear of betraying what he cares for most.....too frightened to dare define what he holds closer than anything else
every dawn may be an Ahroun’s last - it is the history of his kind
it is the destiny writ for him by great Mother Gaia which James accepted as a cub
now he questions another spirit’s premonitions and the aftershocks it inflicts upon his heart and soul
considering the consequence of giving in to his kinsman’s desires
and what would come after the dawn chosen to be his last
a fate worse than death.... or the cherished wound of recollection.....Eagle promised to teach him compassion
the Full Moon promised to ever-fuel his beast’s primal Ragewhat capacity does the mere man have to decide?
fingers tighten in the tangled mop of ropey dreads
manicuring his time for thought and contemplation to nearly nothing
(.... your broken heart has had enough time to think, Jamey-boy, drowning in the oceans of your bitter War, now it is time to breath once again..... remember what it is like to feel.....)
reminding the guttermutt just why the great raptor spirit accepted him among the high-breddecisive action in the face of conflict
each day spent to die without remorse
and above all, the surity of his faithTristan’s go-for-broke grip in his hair keeps the Ahroun from pulling away
releasing him from the conflict of choice
(.... stop questioning your heart, Jamey-boy....)
unleashing him into the conquest of that tentative kiss
claiming lips met with the brute force of the Garou’s whiplash hunger
...... it’s been. so. long.“Izzat so?” soft words drawn by teeth scraping over the soft flesh of the prettyboi’s mouth, hose relinquished so that fists form an unforgiving presence amidst the disarray of curls, keeping newly sensitized skin so close to the dangerous line of white enamel just behind that sly, crooked smile “Yew wanna tes’ a prove y’r conj’r welcum’s good ‘nuff?”
digits flex deceptively slow
pressure increasing to finally pull the kin’s head back
throat so nakedly exposed to the warmth spilled by Garou’s chuffing amusement
moments drawn apart as only a sadist could pass the time
(.... you know he loves every minute of it....)
words finally returning in the rumbling murmur of softest growl“Th’n lick’t clean.”
embrace vanishes with the ebbing heat of inner Rage
fading bootsteps heralding James’ secondary retreat
leading Tristan away from the pack’s communal den(tristan)
[the morning after]
He is slow to wake, this morning, pleasantly warmed under the tangled sheets and rumpled bedspread flung over hips, with the ever present press of rage against his back, tingling across his spine in a spiky fingered caress. The arm under his head is not his own, nor the one around his waist holding him close, tight against the body behind him.
He is cocooned in the safety of an embrace, a feeling he'd almost forgotten it had been so long. He relishes it as his breathing changes, signaling that he's waking, something that will be noticed soon enough. Lips pull into a soft smile, and lashes flutter once, lift, and after glancing at the clock, fall again. Too early. Fingertips slide over the arm at his waist, until slipping under strong hand, fingers lacing together.
Last night may have been a one-time deal. He has always made good on his promise, and he will do so now. To love, to protect, to never expect more then is being given. It was a step, it was glorious, and perhaps there is a promise for more someday in the future. He is content with the satiated relaxation in his brother's sleeping form behind him, however. His own can wait. It has before, it can again.
Jaw clenches, then releases, stretching into a yawn that pops his [....aching....] jaw, body slides into a slow stretch to match, stifling a groan of stiff muscles (cough) so unused to sharing a bed anymore. Instead of getting up, though, he curls back into the heat of James' embrace, and closes his eyes again.
Content. Happy. Enough so that even the growl of his belly is ignored for a while longer. He'll soak in this feeling as long as he possibly can, before the harsh realities of morning can no longer be held at bay.[and faaaaade, heh]
Posted by james at June 15, 2005 12:00 AM