The hell's his problem.
Tuesday, 13 March 2012 19:00![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flint_garouAnd now I have to clean up? This is bullshit.
13 March, 2012
The moon is in the waning Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (62% full).
The post-it notes in the breakroom have slowly increased in number in the past few days, and right now, Flint's observing them. From sitting, crosslegged, in the middle of the dining room table. The galliard taps out a cigarette into the ashtray, purses his lips, and mutters to himself, before hopping down from the table and then moving over to take down several of the green sticky notes from the wall, crumpling them and tossing them in the trash.
That's about when Devon walks in. Ear buds hang from his shoulders, the v at the back of his neck and trailing down his back into a pocket that's not already inhabited by his hands. He starts for the kitchen area, pausing when he sees Flint and the breeding post-it notes. His brows lift a little and he looks back at the Galliard in askance, resuming his earlier destination.
Flint kicks at the floor for a moment after he's finished throwing out the post-it notes, before he turns to see Devon. "Hey, Devon," comes the greeting, before Flint moves to climb back onto the table and stare at the wall, again.
Devon pauses again and looks at Flint. "Not one for formalities all the time, but…" It's a baited statement, though the Ahroun doesn't really wait for an answer. He nearly turns into the kitchen when he sees the Galliard climb onto the table. "Dude. People eat off that. Bad enough you're getting your shoes on it, but your butt too? Get off and sit in a chair."
Flint gives Devon a half a funny look, and grumbles, stopped in the middle of getting a second knee onto the table, and hops back down. "Can't see the wall from the right angle from a chair," the galliard retorts, "but whatever."
"At least make sure you wipe the table off when you're done sitting on it," Devon states, moving into the kitchen. "Don't want me food smelling like ass when I sit down to eat." The fridge door opens, as though he may be planning to do that very thing: eat.
"Duh." This from the younger teenager, as he does climb back to sit on the table—without getting his shoes on it. Instead, legs dangle over the edge, and Flint puts out the stub of the cigarette in the ashtray nearby, takes the pack of cigarettes and shoves it into his pocket. "'s there any of that pie that was in there left?" Flint then asks, a hopeful note in his voice.
Devon turns to look at Flint again, the fridge door held open with one hand. "Thought we talked about your mouth and thinking before you used it," he says quietly. He turns back to the fridge and starts digging around some, pulling out a Coke and something recognizable as left overs. The latter of which is stuck into the microwave for a couple of moments while the question about pie is ignored.
Flint meets Devon's stare levelly, a quirk of his eyebrow and a mutter that's definitely to himself. "Um. Devon-yuf," Flint says, the wording chosen very carefully. "We did." And at that, Flint cracks a faint smile.
"Unless I missed the memo amongst all your sticky notes," Devon says, motioning to the wall o' color. "Think you might be confused. Just a little. The hell is all this anyway?"
Flint shakes his head. "No. Mouse-rhya and Kavi-rhya set me. On. On my rite of passage, um. Weekend before this past one. And. I finished—passed—last Thursday. Night." There is still that faint smile on the former cub's face. "Not confused." A headtilt is given to the wall. "Planning."
"And you're speaking in short, choppy sentences." The Ahroun shakes his head and pulls open the microwave door to retrieve his food. "So congratulations, and what're you planning? And why're you speaking like you don't know how to form sentences anymore?"
"Leave off," Flint says, of the sentences probably. "I'm making the memorial that I thought of," and the full sentences right now seem to take a lot of effort. "And, because I can't be arsed and." A shrug.
A fork completes the meal, jabbed into the container to free up a hand for carrying the Coke. Devon looks at Flint again as he crosses into the common area. "You're making a memorial. And you can't be bothered to speak …what. Normally? Seriously?"
Flint grumbles, and pulls the pack of cigarettes back out, then fidgeting with the pack as he gets one out. "If I get my point across, what's it to you."
Devon pulls up his shoulders. "Your point might be lost if I'm repeating back what you say to make sure I understand your meaning. Besides." He circles around the couch and drops onto one of the cushions. "You're a Galliard. Isn't it better if people understand you the first time around when you're explaining things?"
Flint shrugs, lights the cigarette. "And, I can. Just." A grumble, of something along the lines of 'wouldyoushutupandgoawayalready', interrupts the speaking, and Flint doesn't bother to say anything after, falling silent and hopping down off the table to walk over to the wall with the post-its, picking out three that get stuck into the sketchbook near one of the computers.
Devon twists in his seat to look at Flint when he grumbles. Both brows lift this time, incredulous that the younger boy would say anything that remotely sounds like telling him off. "What's your problem," he nearly demands, only just tempering his tone so it's not entirely confrontational. "You don't own the breakroom, just because you passed your Rite of Passage and got your sticky notes all over the place."
"I wasn't talking to you," Flint offers, after a moment of incredulous look given right back to Devon. "I talked at the voices aloud again, didn't I?" Whoops.
"Whatever," Devon answers. He turns to the television and fishes the remote out from beneath a seat cushion. In seconds it's turned on and the Ahroun begins flipping through stations.
Flint grumbles, moving over to the kitchen. "Really, I. I'm sorry, I wasn't telling you to shut up. And…" the galliard shakes his head, digging through the fridge until he finds the aforementioned pie.
The channel changing pauses just long enough for the volume to lift. Annoyingly loud but not blaring. Then it resumes again, station after station scrolling by until Devon settles on Bugs Bunny reruns.
Flint responds to the change in volume by singing, just loud enough to interfere with understanding the television. 'You got a fast car, I got a ticket to anywhere.' And it goes on. To be fair, the galliard knows the song, and has a good voice. And whatever seems to get to Flint while he's speaking certainly doesn't interfere with singing.
Devon lets it go on for several moments. After all, he's got food to eat as well. But a few minutes is all he can take before the cartoons are shut off and the remainder of his supper is sent flying at Flint's back.
'Anyplace is better, starting from zero got—' The singing abruptly stops when part of the spaghetti hits Flint in the back, and he slams the door to the fridge shut with perhaps a little too much force. Thankfully it misses the younger teen's hair, just getting the sweatshirt, and then Flint whirls, the half a blueberry pie (and pie pan) thrown straight back at Devon.
Devon backhands the pie tin with pie aside, his eyes locked on the Galliard. He draws in a deep breath and lets it out very slowly. "Might want to clean that up," he tells the younger boy, far too quietly for his present mood.
Flint glances to where the majority of Devon's spaghetti is on the kitchen floor. "I'll clean up what I. What I threw," Flint states levelly, with a faint growl, and then very purposely starts singing again, from the beginning. 'You got a fast car…'
Devon launches himself over the back of the couch and closes the space between himself and Flint. "You'll clean it all up," he says when he gets into the other boy's space, practically nose to nose with him. Amazingly, they're of a height, or nearly so. "And you'll do it without singing. Please."
Flint doesn't back away, doesn't agree, and more importantly, even though Devon's in his space, doesn't stop singing. The volume is quieter now, but.
Devon continues to stare at Flint, unblinking, unmoving. Then suddenly he lashes out with a single, solid hooking punch for the younger boy's face. It's not rage empowered, but it's darn near close.
Flint twists as Devon's punch hits his jaw, not expecting it. A slight stretching of his mouth, and Flint continues to sing, now to himself, but not missing a note even though blood drips from his lip and down his face. Then, the younger teenager shoots out a fist with a blur, thanks to their close proximity, to punch the other Glass Walker in the gut.
It's fast, but Devon's mind is already in a different gear. Muscles tight, Flint's fist hits solidly and the Ahroun exhales with the strike. He's barely phased and follows up with a second and third punch, one high the other low, just as fast as his last.
Flint twists away from the high strike, although not the low one, dropping down for a moment to dodge. When the galliard catches his breath, he's not singing anymore, but he's not trying to disengage, either. Instead, there's a whirl of a roundhouse kick with the force of rage behind it, aimed at mid-height.
Devon steps into the kick, elbow angled to catch the oncoming shin. It absorbs most of the impact, chances are it'll hurt the Galliard as much as it bruises the Ahroun's arm. While Flint is extended with his kick, Dev drops his shoulder and pushes himself into the other boy to take him down bodily. His free arm snakes around to hold the other tightly and squeeze his chest.
Flint twists as he hits the floor, mostly pinned. Breath heaves out with a snarl as the younger Glass Walker snaps into crinos, aiming a punch with a heavy fist to catch the Ahroun's … jaw? That general direction, as the Galliard tries to get up.
Bone cracks under that fist, an Devon's expression twists into something akin to anger and pain. He's in crinos almost instantly, the shift barely controlled. And though his injury screams for attention, his arm tightens around the Galliard's chest and squeezes like a python around a rat, tightening with every one of Requiem's exhales.
Requiem squirms even as the grip tightens, and then squirms all the way free and gets to his feet, snarling at the other crinos, breath heavy, hands in fists at his side.
It's all the Ahroun can do to keep his grip, and even that proves futile with the shattered bones in his shoulder and collar area. He climbs to his feet a beat behind the younger Garou, bringing an upward thrusting fist with him, almost wild enough to catch anything yet aimed to hit the Galliard's center mass.
It's after that punch hits and sends Requiem stumbling a step backwards that something clicks for the young Glass Walker, and he heaves a sigh, sobered from whatever anger had ruled him. ~Damn it,~ he mutters, trying to be aware of the furniture in the breakroom as he sets about to aim a heavy strike at Red-Hands, with a goal of hitting the Ahroun atop the head.
There's fire in that gaze, and arms reaching, swinging with the control of a wild animal, but aim gained from training is missing. The Ahroun drops to a knee when the fist strikes his already injured shoulder and just misses his cracked jaw. Blind with rage, Red-Hands is up again a half second later, lips pulled back in a voiceless snarl, a clawed hand driving at the Galliard's middle.
Requiem scoots out of the way enough that claws graze rather than anything else and then there's another heavy, this time two-handed, blow heavy and with a lot more effort behind it to land correctly on his tribesmate's head.
Red-Hands doesn't fall to his knees this time. No, he smacks hard and heavy into the floor following the two handed blow hitting him squarely on the head. He drops, lacking any ceremony or pretense, form shrinking through glabro into homid as he lay face down on the floor, amidst the ruined supper and pie. Bruising and swelling already show from the Galliard's first strike, and likely a headache will follow.
Requiem sighs, glancing at the chair that he's knocked over in the midst of this. It's dented, but less banged up than either of the two. A huff, and the Galliard shrinks to glabro himself, with some effort, moving over towards the kitchen and the cleaning supplies with a wary eye on Devon.
Devon is well and out cold. The subtle signs of breathing giving the only clue he's still alive. Reds and purples stain one side of his face, bruising mixing with blueberry and spaghetti, drains down his neck and disappears under the collar of his t-shirt.
Flint doesn't pay overly much attention to Devon, just starts humming to himself—the same song as before—as he gets together a small bucket and rags and a sponge, grumbling.
13 March, 2012
The moon is in the waning Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (62% full).
The post-it notes in the breakroom have slowly increased in number in the past few days, and right now, Flint's observing them. From sitting, crosslegged, in the middle of the dining room table. The galliard taps out a cigarette into the ashtray, purses his lips, and mutters to himself, before hopping down from the table and then moving over to take down several of the green sticky notes from the wall, crumpling them and tossing them in the trash.
That's about when Devon walks in. Ear buds hang from his shoulders, the v at the back of his neck and trailing down his back into a pocket that's not already inhabited by his hands. He starts for the kitchen area, pausing when he sees Flint and the breeding post-it notes. His brows lift a little and he looks back at the Galliard in askance, resuming his earlier destination.
Flint kicks at the floor for a moment after he's finished throwing out the post-it notes, before he turns to see Devon. "Hey, Devon," comes the greeting, before Flint moves to climb back onto the table and stare at the wall, again.
Devon pauses again and looks at Flint. "Not one for formalities all the time, but…" It's a baited statement, though the Ahroun doesn't really wait for an answer. He nearly turns into the kitchen when he sees the Galliard climb onto the table. "Dude. People eat off that. Bad enough you're getting your shoes on it, but your butt too? Get off and sit in a chair."
Flint gives Devon a half a funny look, and grumbles, stopped in the middle of getting a second knee onto the table, and hops back down. "Can't see the wall from the right angle from a chair," the galliard retorts, "but whatever."
"At least make sure you wipe the table off when you're done sitting on it," Devon states, moving into the kitchen. "Don't want me food smelling like ass when I sit down to eat." The fridge door opens, as though he may be planning to do that very thing: eat.
"Duh." This from the younger teenager, as he does climb back to sit on the table—without getting his shoes on it. Instead, legs dangle over the edge, and Flint puts out the stub of the cigarette in the ashtray nearby, takes the pack of cigarettes and shoves it into his pocket. "'s there any of that pie that was in there left?" Flint then asks, a hopeful note in his voice.
Devon turns to look at Flint again, the fridge door held open with one hand. "Thought we talked about your mouth and thinking before you used it," he says quietly. He turns back to the fridge and starts digging around some, pulling out a Coke and something recognizable as left overs. The latter of which is stuck into the microwave for a couple of moments while the question about pie is ignored.
Flint meets Devon's stare levelly, a quirk of his eyebrow and a mutter that's definitely to himself. "Um. Devon-yuf," Flint says, the wording chosen very carefully. "We did." And at that, Flint cracks a faint smile.
"Unless I missed the memo amongst all your sticky notes," Devon says, motioning to the wall o' color. "Think you might be confused. Just a little. The hell is all this anyway?"
Flint shakes his head. "No. Mouse-rhya and Kavi-rhya set me. On. On my rite of passage, um. Weekend before this past one. And. I finished—passed—last Thursday. Night." There is still that faint smile on the former cub's face. "Not confused." A headtilt is given to the wall. "Planning."
"And you're speaking in short, choppy sentences." The Ahroun shakes his head and pulls open the microwave door to retrieve his food. "So congratulations, and what're you planning? And why're you speaking like you don't know how to form sentences anymore?"
"Leave off," Flint says, of the sentences probably. "I'm making the memorial that I thought of," and the full sentences right now seem to take a lot of effort. "And, because I can't be arsed and." A shrug.
A fork completes the meal, jabbed into the container to free up a hand for carrying the Coke. Devon looks at Flint again as he crosses into the common area. "You're making a memorial. And you can't be bothered to speak …what. Normally? Seriously?"
Flint grumbles, and pulls the pack of cigarettes back out, then fidgeting with the pack as he gets one out. "If I get my point across, what's it to you."
Devon pulls up his shoulders. "Your point might be lost if I'm repeating back what you say to make sure I understand your meaning. Besides." He circles around the couch and drops onto one of the cushions. "You're a Galliard. Isn't it better if people understand you the first time around when you're explaining things?"
Flint shrugs, lights the cigarette. "And, I can. Just." A grumble, of something along the lines of 'wouldyoushutupandgoawayalready', interrupts the speaking, and Flint doesn't bother to say anything after, falling silent and hopping down off the table to walk over to the wall with the post-its, picking out three that get stuck into the sketchbook near one of the computers.
Devon twists in his seat to look at Flint when he grumbles. Both brows lift this time, incredulous that the younger boy would say anything that remotely sounds like telling him off. "What's your problem," he nearly demands, only just tempering his tone so it's not entirely confrontational. "You don't own the breakroom, just because you passed your Rite of Passage and got your sticky notes all over the place."
"I wasn't talking to you," Flint offers, after a moment of incredulous look given right back to Devon. "I talked at the voices aloud again, didn't I?" Whoops.
"Whatever," Devon answers. He turns to the television and fishes the remote out from beneath a seat cushion. In seconds it's turned on and the Ahroun begins flipping through stations.
Flint grumbles, moving over to the kitchen. "Really, I. I'm sorry, I wasn't telling you to shut up. And…" the galliard shakes his head, digging through the fridge until he finds the aforementioned pie.
The channel changing pauses just long enough for the volume to lift. Annoyingly loud but not blaring. Then it resumes again, station after station scrolling by until Devon settles on Bugs Bunny reruns.
Flint responds to the change in volume by singing, just loud enough to interfere with understanding the television. 'You got a fast car, I got a ticket to anywhere.' And it goes on. To be fair, the galliard knows the song, and has a good voice. And whatever seems to get to Flint while he's speaking certainly doesn't interfere with singing.
Devon lets it go on for several moments. After all, he's got food to eat as well. But a few minutes is all he can take before the cartoons are shut off and the remainder of his supper is sent flying at Flint's back.
'Anyplace is better, starting from zero got—' The singing abruptly stops when part of the spaghetti hits Flint in the back, and he slams the door to the fridge shut with perhaps a little too much force. Thankfully it misses the younger teen's hair, just getting the sweatshirt, and then Flint whirls, the half a blueberry pie (and pie pan) thrown straight back at Devon.
Devon backhands the pie tin with pie aside, his eyes locked on the Galliard. He draws in a deep breath and lets it out very slowly. "Might want to clean that up," he tells the younger boy, far too quietly for his present mood.
Flint glances to where the majority of Devon's spaghetti is on the kitchen floor. "I'll clean up what I. What I threw," Flint states levelly, with a faint growl, and then very purposely starts singing again, from the beginning. 'You got a fast car…'
Devon launches himself over the back of the couch and closes the space between himself and Flint. "You'll clean it all up," he says when he gets into the other boy's space, practically nose to nose with him. Amazingly, they're of a height, or nearly so. "And you'll do it without singing. Please."
Flint doesn't back away, doesn't agree, and more importantly, even though Devon's in his space, doesn't stop singing. The volume is quieter now, but.
Devon continues to stare at Flint, unblinking, unmoving. Then suddenly he lashes out with a single, solid hooking punch for the younger boy's face. It's not rage empowered, but it's darn near close.
Flint twists as Devon's punch hits his jaw, not expecting it. A slight stretching of his mouth, and Flint continues to sing, now to himself, but not missing a note even though blood drips from his lip and down his face. Then, the younger teenager shoots out a fist with a blur, thanks to their close proximity, to punch the other Glass Walker in the gut.
It's fast, but Devon's mind is already in a different gear. Muscles tight, Flint's fist hits solidly and the Ahroun exhales with the strike. He's barely phased and follows up with a second and third punch, one high the other low, just as fast as his last.
Flint twists away from the high strike, although not the low one, dropping down for a moment to dodge. When the galliard catches his breath, he's not singing anymore, but he's not trying to disengage, either. Instead, there's a whirl of a roundhouse kick with the force of rage behind it, aimed at mid-height.
Devon steps into the kick, elbow angled to catch the oncoming shin. It absorbs most of the impact, chances are it'll hurt the Galliard as much as it bruises the Ahroun's arm. While Flint is extended with his kick, Dev drops his shoulder and pushes himself into the other boy to take him down bodily. His free arm snakes around to hold the other tightly and squeeze his chest.
Flint twists as he hits the floor, mostly pinned. Breath heaves out with a snarl as the younger Glass Walker snaps into crinos, aiming a punch with a heavy fist to catch the Ahroun's … jaw? That general direction, as the Galliard tries to get up.
Bone cracks under that fist, an Devon's expression twists into something akin to anger and pain. He's in crinos almost instantly, the shift barely controlled. And though his injury screams for attention, his arm tightens around the Galliard's chest and squeezes like a python around a rat, tightening with every one of Requiem's exhales.
Requiem squirms even as the grip tightens, and then squirms all the way free and gets to his feet, snarling at the other crinos, breath heavy, hands in fists at his side.
It's all the Ahroun can do to keep his grip, and even that proves futile with the shattered bones in his shoulder and collar area. He climbs to his feet a beat behind the younger Garou, bringing an upward thrusting fist with him, almost wild enough to catch anything yet aimed to hit the Galliard's center mass.
It's after that punch hits and sends Requiem stumbling a step backwards that something clicks for the young Glass Walker, and he heaves a sigh, sobered from whatever anger had ruled him. ~Damn it,~ he mutters, trying to be aware of the furniture in the breakroom as he sets about to aim a heavy strike at Red-Hands, with a goal of hitting the Ahroun atop the head.
There's fire in that gaze, and arms reaching, swinging with the control of a wild animal, but aim gained from training is missing. The Ahroun drops to a knee when the fist strikes his already injured shoulder and just misses his cracked jaw. Blind with rage, Red-Hands is up again a half second later, lips pulled back in a voiceless snarl, a clawed hand driving at the Galliard's middle.
Requiem scoots out of the way enough that claws graze rather than anything else and then there's another heavy, this time two-handed, blow heavy and with a lot more effort behind it to land correctly on his tribesmate's head.
Red-Hands doesn't fall to his knees this time. No, he smacks hard and heavy into the floor following the two handed blow hitting him squarely on the head. He drops, lacking any ceremony or pretense, form shrinking through glabro into homid as he lay face down on the floor, amidst the ruined supper and pie. Bruising and swelling already show from the Galliard's first strike, and likely a headache will follow.
Requiem sighs, glancing at the chair that he's knocked over in the midst of this. It's dented, but less banged up than either of the two. A huff, and the Galliard shrinks to glabro himself, with some effort, moving over towards the kitchen and the cleaning supplies with a wary eye on Devon.
Devon is well and out cold. The subtle signs of breathing giving the only clue he's still alive. Reds and purples stain one side of his face, bruising mixing with blueberry and spaghetti, drains down his neck and disappears under the collar of his t-shirt.
Flint doesn't pay overly much attention to Devon, just starts humming to himself—the same song as before—as he gets together a small bucket and rags and a sponge, grumbling.