Post by Brenna Gordon on Jul 18, 2016 21:28:27 GMT -5
"Shit."
A sigh leaves her lips as a large section of the sail cloth she had ripped down in her frenzy to flee her apartment slides free of the bedpost to lay in an undignified heap across her bed. As it turns out, it takes precisely four days for a panicked mind to circle back around to a rather obvious truth; considering her history of running away, the last thing her mother would expect is for her to stay put. Smoothing things over with her landlord was easier than she expected, though clearing up the mess her flight created has proven to be the real issue. Nothing was broken, but the hurricane-esque path her panic had left in her wake… that was a different matter. She tried to take it as a game, or maybe a means of training in a lower-impact sort of way for her upcoming match against Dontevius Ellis--but that had only carried her halfway through. The rest was simple grin-and-bear it, and now? Only the sailcloth remained but it flat-out refuses to cooperate. A nail is all the more it takes to get it to stay put, she's learned-- but it has to be at the right angle. With all of the slack in the world to work with, the first corner was easy as pie... but from there? It's gone pear-shaped enough that she's almost wishing she had the ability to summon forth an octopus' tentacles like some sort of sea witch--
No. Don't even think about it, Brenna. The last thing you need is to bring her attention back to you.
Forcing the thought back with a sigh, the raven-haired female takes hold of the corner anew. Bare toes dig into the cheap carpet she picked up at Goodwill for all of five dollars as she stretches upward, finding the point where it needs to connect before carefully trying to maneuver the nail into place. From there, she's carefully reaching toward where she's shoved her hammer into the back pocket of well-worn khaki cut-offs. She can feel the sailcloth wanting to slip, wanting to slither its way free of her anew--
Until it's simply not.
That second pair of hands she's been needing are just there, fingers splayed to temporarily tack it down against the wall without warning. The owner of the hands is the reason her own once bore brilliant stains back when they first met a year ago; his pink-mohawked figure had highwire-walked the patio rail right into the sunset she'd been sketching and into her life long enough to be able to lock onto her presence. There's a moment's tension, something coiling itself beneath her skin-- but as soon as she glances over her shoulder and spots that splash of pink that has no other possible source? The hammer is retrieved, a few blows all the more it takes to secure the cloth in place.
"I'd ask why you didn't knock, but that would be kind of silly," she says with a faint smile as she twists around without moving overmuch, those dark eyes meeting those of her visitor with some level of amusement. Seeing Berlin Anderson in the flesh for the first time in ages is enough to make her relax that little bit more.
"Well, you know, I could've tried hanging out there by my fingernails and knocking on the window frame, but..." The way his face shrugs at that echoes similar amusement. "Already had an invitation, and my leg's kinda giving me fits; woulda been a pity to end up splatting on the ground like Frogger?"
"Something like that." The chuckle that leaves her is soft as foam as she shakes her head, that smile becoming something more substantial. Returning the hammer to its temporary home behind her, there's a moment where her hand threatens to rise-- but she keeps it down where it is, letting it rest upon her leg instead. "When did you get into town, anyway?"
"This afternoon. Helped my ride down here with their gear, meandered over this way. Not a lot else to see in this city anymore. Oh--" At last he takes that step backward, grabbing the bag he'd left on the floor haphazardly. "Told you I was bringing you something. Raw clover honey from South Dakota. You said you took honey with your tea."
The jar he pulls out is a full quart of dark amber with a bit of honeycomb in the middle, simple glossy label pasted to it, obviously from a local business. The jar is accepted with careful fingers, the label something she glances over before Brenna is placing it with care upon one of the well-used pillows at the head of the bed. There has to be at least a dozen of them in various stages of wear, a mix of throw pillows and the more traditionally-expected kind. When next her gaze finds his, her lips have curled toward a smirk-- one that is surprisingly pleasant, considering the source. "Is it me, or are you going out of your way to ensure you won't need a hotel room tonight?" There's a subtle ebb of innuendo, warm and thick as the contents of his present for her.
He snrks at that, a little off-guard and a little amused with a mischievous grin. "Oh, I wouldn't say no to that... though I'll make you a promise right now. Nothing I give comes with expectations, ever. It's just because." To explain further would really get more complicated than he ought, and she knows that just as well as he does.
"Ah, but I'm not so sure you're being honest," comes the reply as she takes a small step forward, invading his personal space further without a bat of an eyelash. The chuckle that follows, while quiet, is hopefully enough to soothe away some of the sting of her words-- though the fact that her eyes are alight with amusement might just be enough on their own.
"Oh, you don't?" His head tilts slightly, but it's not what it might've been-- watching her face meticulously. Not leaning back, though it's that kind of proximity where not-touching is more pointed than actually brushing into one another would be. Tense enough to expect static crackling. "Well, I could always turn around and leave, prove what I say, but..." And there's that amusement again. "I don't think that's what you actually want me to do."
A pause; there's a moment where her own tension rises, mirroring his own... but then she's laughing, a full-bodied sound that comes as close to music as her voice is capable of. Her head falls forward to rest against the bridge of his nose gently beneath the force of it as the rest of her quivers subtly. "Ah..." Letting out an exhale, her gaze rises to meet his. "And here I was going to make some joke about you obviously expecting me to want you to make tea, which wouldn't exactly be wrong."
"Ah yeah, I was supposed to do that, wasn't I? Is that how this'll go, then? 'Berlin, hold my sailcloth up for me. Berlin, make me tea. Berlin, I'm out of that honey, can you...'" And it trails off into a snickering sort of laugh, still oddly good-natured. "I don't fetch papers, lady-- not enough dog, too much coyote. Might run off with 'em instead."
"Is that all you're going to run off with?" It's not until the words escape her that she realizes what she has inadvertently exposed, that smile fading-- not out of hesitation, but a caution that she can no more help than she can her need for oxygen. The urge to reach out is no longer one she can bring herself to ignore, her hands reaching up to rest light upon his torso, fingers splaying out to settle into the subtle hollows of his ribcage. A careful breath.
"Not an easy question to answer." Not that he thinks she really expects him to. The urge to ask 'And do you still have the habit of up and vanishing? in turn hovers behind his eyes, but he doesn't. He has a feeling he knows the answer, but it's not as if he really has the room to criticize. And isn't it funny how personal boundaries just vanished when he wasn't looking somehow-- if they'd ever really been there at all? Letting his arms wind loosely around her lower back, head low, hovering there both in a gesture to let her move away if she wants and just--
Absorbing touch. A connection, though they don't really know one another that well yet; sharp contrast to that echoing void that's too constant elsewhere. When his mouth finally finds hers like it's wanted to for so long, he's waiting for something to break. And as it turns out?
Something does... although he's not aware of it.
Beyond a breath to adjust, she doesn't recoil from the surprising warmth of that kiss-- though he'd find her cool to the touch, almost too much so to be healthy. She quickly matches him, though, almost adjusting to his temperature as if she were settling into his waters and letting them warm her. To say he thaws her is inaccurate, that he awakens something within her closer to the truth. She cannot quite quantify what drives her to pull him closer, to part her lips to welcome him in... but she can feel something uncoiling within her mind, reaching out for more of what he's forcing into her system. Namely? That want for a feeling of home, a place to call her own--
And in the absence of more traditional means, this is as good a substitute as any.
A sigh leaves her lips as a large section of the sail cloth she had ripped down in her frenzy to flee her apartment slides free of the bedpost to lay in an undignified heap across her bed. As it turns out, it takes precisely four days for a panicked mind to circle back around to a rather obvious truth; considering her history of running away, the last thing her mother would expect is for her to stay put. Smoothing things over with her landlord was easier than she expected, though clearing up the mess her flight created has proven to be the real issue. Nothing was broken, but the hurricane-esque path her panic had left in her wake… that was a different matter. She tried to take it as a game, or maybe a means of training in a lower-impact sort of way for her upcoming match against Dontevius Ellis--but that had only carried her halfway through. The rest was simple grin-and-bear it, and now? Only the sailcloth remained but it flat-out refuses to cooperate. A nail is all the more it takes to get it to stay put, she's learned-- but it has to be at the right angle. With all of the slack in the world to work with, the first corner was easy as pie... but from there? It's gone pear-shaped enough that she's almost wishing she had the ability to summon forth an octopus' tentacles like some sort of sea witch--
No. Don't even think about it, Brenna. The last thing you need is to bring her attention back to you.
Forcing the thought back with a sigh, the raven-haired female takes hold of the corner anew. Bare toes dig into the cheap carpet she picked up at Goodwill for all of five dollars as she stretches upward, finding the point where it needs to connect before carefully trying to maneuver the nail into place. From there, she's carefully reaching toward where she's shoved her hammer into the back pocket of well-worn khaki cut-offs. She can feel the sailcloth wanting to slip, wanting to slither its way free of her anew--
Until it's simply not.
That second pair of hands she's been needing are just there, fingers splayed to temporarily tack it down against the wall without warning. The owner of the hands is the reason her own once bore brilliant stains back when they first met a year ago; his pink-mohawked figure had highwire-walked the patio rail right into the sunset she'd been sketching and into her life long enough to be able to lock onto her presence. There's a moment's tension, something coiling itself beneath her skin-- but as soon as she glances over her shoulder and spots that splash of pink that has no other possible source? The hammer is retrieved, a few blows all the more it takes to secure the cloth in place.
"I'd ask why you didn't knock, but that would be kind of silly," she says with a faint smile as she twists around without moving overmuch, those dark eyes meeting those of her visitor with some level of amusement. Seeing Berlin Anderson in the flesh for the first time in ages is enough to make her relax that little bit more.
"Well, you know, I could've tried hanging out there by my fingernails and knocking on the window frame, but..." The way his face shrugs at that echoes similar amusement. "Already had an invitation, and my leg's kinda giving me fits; woulda been a pity to end up splatting on the ground like Frogger?"
"Something like that." The chuckle that leaves her is soft as foam as she shakes her head, that smile becoming something more substantial. Returning the hammer to its temporary home behind her, there's a moment where her hand threatens to rise-- but she keeps it down where it is, letting it rest upon her leg instead. "When did you get into town, anyway?"
"This afternoon. Helped my ride down here with their gear, meandered over this way. Not a lot else to see in this city anymore. Oh--" At last he takes that step backward, grabbing the bag he'd left on the floor haphazardly. "Told you I was bringing you something. Raw clover honey from South Dakota. You said you took honey with your tea."
The jar he pulls out is a full quart of dark amber with a bit of honeycomb in the middle, simple glossy label pasted to it, obviously from a local business. The jar is accepted with careful fingers, the label something she glances over before Brenna is placing it with care upon one of the well-used pillows at the head of the bed. There has to be at least a dozen of them in various stages of wear, a mix of throw pillows and the more traditionally-expected kind. When next her gaze finds his, her lips have curled toward a smirk-- one that is surprisingly pleasant, considering the source. "Is it me, or are you going out of your way to ensure you won't need a hotel room tonight?" There's a subtle ebb of innuendo, warm and thick as the contents of his present for her.
He snrks at that, a little off-guard and a little amused with a mischievous grin. "Oh, I wouldn't say no to that... though I'll make you a promise right now. Nothing I give comes with expectations, ever. It's just because." To explain further would really get more complicated than he ought, and she knows that just as well as he does.
"Ah, but I'm not so sure you're being honest," comes the reply as she takes a small step forward, invading his personal space further without a bat of an eyelash. The chuckle that follows, while quiet, is hopefully enough to soothe away some of the sting of her words-- though the fact that her eyes are alight with amusement might just be enough on their own.
"Oh, you don't?" His head tilts slightly, but it's not what it might've been-- watching her face meticulously. Not leaning back, though it's that kind of proximity where not-touching is more pointed than actually brushing into one another would be. Tense enough to expect static crackling. "Well, I could always turn around and leave, prove what I say, but..." And there's that amusement again. "I don't think that's what you actually want me to do."
A pause; there's a moment where her own tension rises, mirroring his own... but then she's laughing, a full-bodied sound that comes as close to music as her voice is capable of. Her head falls forward to rest against the bridge of his nose gently beneath the force of it as the rest of her quivers subtly. "Ah..." Letting out an exhale, her gaze rises to meet his. "And here I was going to make some joke about you obviously expecting me to want you to make tea, which wouldn't exactly be wrong."
"Ah yeah, I was supposed to do that, wasn't I? Is that how this'll go, then? 'Berlin, hold my sailcloth up for me. Berlin, make me tea. Berlin, I'm out of that honey, can you...'" And it trails off into a snickering sort of laugh, still oddly good-natured. "I don't fetch papers, lady-- not enough dog, too much coyote. Might run off with 'em instead."
"Is that all you're going to run off with?" It's not until the words escape her that she realizes what she has inadvertently exposed, that smile fading-- not out of hesitation, but a caution that she can no more help than she can her need for oxygen. The urge to reach out is no longer one she can bring herself to ignore, her hands reaching up to rest light upon his torso, fingers splaying out to settle into the subtle hollows of his ribcage. A careful breath.
"Not an easy question to answer." Not that he thinks she really expects him to. The urge to ask 'And do you still have the habit of up and vanishing? in turn hovers behind his eyes, but he doesn't. He has a feeling he knows the answer, but it's not as if he really has the room to criticize. And isn't it funny how personal boundaries just vanished when he wasn't looking somehow-- if they'd ever really been there at all? Letting his arms wind loosely around her lower back, head low, hovering there both in a gesture to let her move away if she wants and just--
Absorbing touch. A connection, though they don't really know one another that well yet; sharp contrast to that echoing void that's too constant elsewhere. When his mouth finally finds hers like it's wanted to for so long, he's waiting for something to break. And as it turns out?
Something does... although he's not aware of it.
Beyond a breath to adjust, she doesn't recoil from the surprising warmth of that kiss-- though he'd find her cool to the touch, almost too much so to be healthy. She quickly matches him, though, almost adjusting to his temperature as if she were settling into his waters and letting them warm her. To say he thaws her is inaccurate, that he awakens something within her closer to the truth. She cannot quite quantify what drives her to pull him closer, to part her lips to welcome him in... but she can feel something uncoiling within her mind, reaching out for more of what he's forcing into her system. Namely? That want for a feeling of home, a place to call her own--
And in the absence of more traditional means, this is as good a substitute as any.
