![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flint_garouBoys your age…
24 October, 2012
The moon is in the waxing Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (61% full).
The fourth floor workshop at the moment smells of sawdust, and wood glues. In the open space in the middle, with a couple of sawhorses, Flint is focused on his work. Around, placed wherever they might fit, are what look like they should, at some point, be shelves. The sound system, as well, has been turned up, currently playing music that sounds like industrial, with a fair amount of electric guitar and synth and drums, but a strong melody in there as well.
Salem lets himself into the workshop, one hand in a pants pocket, the other gripping the door handle as he looks around, taking the place in for a moment or so before settling his gaze on Flint.
Flint does seem to notice Salem's arrival, head tipping towards the other Walker for a moment, but other than that, Flint doesn't stop in what he's doing, adjusting a set of clamps to hold the shelf that he is working on, then reaches and grabs a brick from a nearby pile, setting it on the end, then one on the other end to weight the shelf down. Only then does Flint look up, turning around a moment—almost scatterbrained—until he finds the remote to turn the volume down to a level to allow conversation. "Hi Salem-rhya," Flint adds, before moving over to another shelf, adjusting the thumbscrew on the clamp there.
"Flint," says the grizzled halfmoon, returning the greeting brusquely as he shuts the door. He limps over, eyeballing the young Galliard's work with a critical expression, then turns back to the youth himself. Likewise, critical. "How old are you?"
Flint furrows his brow a moment and chews on his lower lip at the question. "Fourt— um. Fifteen," he answers, and then moves over to flip switches along several of the table tools, turning them off. Whatever Flint's building, it's of white oak that matches the stuff he used for the dining room table and chairs, and he's clearly taking the time to put it together right, and there are a fair number of boards here and there with grooved edges, or other signs that they'll be put together. There's also a sketch on one of the tables, that shows a low bookshelf three shelves wide wide, with two shelves on each section.
"Fifteen." Salem considers this, squinting. He moves to lean against the workbench, getting some of the weight off his bad knee. "…It's come to my attention that you're… lacking in certain fundamental areas of your education." He pauses a beat, folding his arms across his chest. "Bluntly speaking, that you've never had 'the talk' and don't know anything about sex."
The young galliard finishes the few things to turn off, and also finds a folding chair, unfolding it not far from Salem for the adren before folding himself to sit crosslegged on an empty section of floor. And looking intensely, intensely uncomfortable. "I— um. I… know t-that… grown-ups do it?" Flint offers, complete with the tone of voice suggesting that Flint can't possibly bring himself to understand why they might.
Salem stares at Flint with narrowed eyes, his frown a touch suspicious. "Flint," he says at last, "boys your age 'do it'. And, generally, if they aren't doing it, they're thinking about it."
Flint shakes his head from side to side and looks up at Salem, then shrugs his shoulders. There's a long, long pause, but that same tone remains. "Um," is what he manages to say, and shakes his head again, then looks around at the workshop. "I… don't. Honest, Salem-rhya. I don't."
Salem grunts. "Fine, let's go with that," he says in a tone of voice which suggests he doesn't quite believe the young Galliard. Not that it seems to matter. "We'll start at the basics. Do you know how babies are made?"
Flint chews his lower lip a little, and nods, settling to look somewhere at the floor. There's a bit of a pause. "Yes. I mean, I… two people who, want to have kids… do it, without using an. Um."
Salem looks a trifle impatient. "Birth control, Flint. Usually one of these." He fishes a wrapped one out of a pocket and chucks it lightly at the boy. It's a Trojan, but nothing special otherwise. "The SCCU health clinic gives these out for free. They're in a giant bowl by the door, so you don't even have to speak to anyone. There are other methods of birth control, of course, but that one's easiest for a man and will protect you from disease. And before you say Garou don't get sick, I personally know of a Glass Walker who died of AIDS, back in the early 1990s, and we can still catch and spread things like herpes."
The cliath manages to look even more uncomfortable at this, setting the condom into one pocket of his jeans nonetheless. "Uh, oh. Okay," Flint says, voice turning a bit towards flat, tense. "Right, then." His voice cracks as he speaks, bringing a furrow of frustration to his brow, clearing his throat to follow, but overall, Flint sounds uncertain, and then brings his hands to push through his hair, before looking back up at Salem, the sort of 'what else?' look.
Salem folds his arms across his chest again. "At some point… one hopes… you will get urges. You'll probably have dreams, like the ones you probably had before you Firsted… only not at all like those. One hopes." He pauses to shift his weight a bit before continuing briskly. "This is normal. Don't worry about it and do what comes naturally. Fortunately for you, you have an entire internet's worth of free pornography. Just don't brick your laptop in perusing it. Use an ad-blocker, don't give any information out, be wary of the sites you use—" and here he rattles off a couple like it's the most normal thing in the world. "…and clean your goddamn history afterwards. Even better, use Chrome in Incognito mode."
Flint squints, tangling fingers to pull at a bit of his hair and shakes his head again. The tension of the moon shows now, too, and Flint steadies his breathing. "Is it normal to… not?" the boy asks, slowly.
Salem raises an eyebrow. Bluntly: "Normal not to have urges, or normal not to masturbate?"
Flint takes a deep breath and eventually loops his hands around his wrists. "Normal to not have urges, to…" And the face that Flint makes, brows furrowing and nose screwing up and a frown combined with elementary disgust, does a fairly succinct job of expressing the sentiment. "And normal to think that… to… is… isn't anything I. Really. I… even. E-even knowing, and, such, doesn't… mean I want to."
Salem sighs. "To be brutally honest, Flint, no, it's not normal." He frowns down at the teenager. "A boy your age should be a bundle of raging hormones and wetting the sheets at night from dreaming about tits." A shrug. "Or cock, as the case may be."
The cliath seems to consider this for a moment, a long moment of silence and fingers dig into his wrist for a time, then he shakes his head. "Nope… I… no more interested in guys than I… am in, in girls," Flint says, but he climbs to his feet, moving to lean against one of the worktables. "The. The… entire idea of sex? Is kinda repulsive a-and I… just. I want nothing to do with it." Flint leans on the table and looks down at the floor, at his feet. "It… I. Guess I'll. Just be back to, keeping busy and such."
Salem grunts and pushes off from his lean, his expression sour. "Fine. But, if you do develop… anything… or have any questions, find someone to talk to." He starts limping for the door. "Or research the subject online."
Flint nods again. "Okay," he acknowledges. "I will." Flint bites down on his lower lip, hard enough that it draws blood, moves over to lean against the sink, shoulders tense, cursing a moment under his breath.
Salem nods curtly and leaves the workshop, closing the door firmly behind him.
24 October, 2012
The moon is in the waxing Gibbous (Galliard) Moon phase (61% full).
The fourth floor workshop at the moment smells of sawdust, and wood glues. In the open space in the middle, with a couple of sawhorses, Flint is focused on his work. Around, placed wherever they might fit, are what look like they should, at some point, be shelves. The sound system, as well, has been turned up, currently playing music that sounds like industrial, with a fair amount of electric guitar and synth and drums, but a strong melody in there as well.
Salem lets himself into the workshop, one hand in a pants pocket, the other gripping the door handle as he looks around, taking the place in for a moment or so before settling his gaze on Flint.
Flint does seem to notice Salem's arrival, head tipping towards the other Walker for a moment, but other than that, Flint doesn't stop in what he's doing, adjusting a set of clamps to hold the shelf that he is working on, then reaches and grabs a brick from a nearby pile, setting it on the end, then one on the other end to weight the shelf down. Only then does Flint look up, turning around a moment—almost scatterbrained—until he finds the remote to turn the volume down to a level to allow conversation. "Hi Salem-rhya," Flint adds, before moving over to another shelf, adjusting the thumbscrew on the clamp there.
"Flint," says the grizzled halfmoon, returning the greeting brusquely as he shuts the door. He limps over, eyeballing the young Galliard's work with a critical expression, then turns back to the youth himself. Likewise, critical. "How old are you?"
Flint furrows his brow a moment and chews on his lower lip at the question. "Fourt— um. Fifteen," he answers, and then moves over to flip switches along several of the table tools, turning them off. Whatever Flint's building, it's of white oak that matches the stuff he used for the dining room table and chairs, and he's clearly taking the time to put it together right, and there are a fair number of boards here and there with grooved edges, or other signs that they'll be put together. There's also a sketch on one of the tables, that shows a low bookshelf three shelves wide wide, with two shelves on each section.
"Fifteen." Salem considers this, squinting. He moves to lean against the workbench, getting some of the weight off his bad knee. "…It's come to my attention that you're… lacking in certain fundamental areas of your education." He pauses a beat, folding his arms across his chest. "Bluntly speaking, that you've never had 'the talk' and don't know anything about sex."
The young galliard finishes the few things to turn off, and also finds a folding chair, unfolding it not far from Salem for the adren before folding himself to sit crosslegged on an empty section of floor. And looking intensely, intensely uncomfortable. "I— um. I… know t-that… grown-ups do it?" Flint offers, complete with the tone of voice suggesting that Flint can't possibly bring himself to understand why they might.
Salem stares at Flint with narrowed eyes, his frown a touch suspicious. "Flint," he says at last, "boys your age 'do it'. And, generally, if they aren't doing it, they're thinking about it."
Flint shakes his head from side to side and looks up at Salem, then shrugs his shoulders. There's a long, long pause, but that same tone remains. "Um," is what he manages to say, and shakes his head again, then looks around at the workshop. "I… don't. Honest, Salem-rhya. I don't."
Salem grunts. "Fine, let's go with that," he says in a tone of voice which suggests he doesn't quite believe the young Galliard. Not that it seems to matter. "We'll start at the basics. Do you know how babies are made?"
Flint chews his lower lip a little, and nods, settling to look somewhere at the floor. There's a bit of a pause. "Yes. I mean, I… two people who, want to have kids… do it, without using an. Um."
Salem looks a trifle impatient. "Birth control, Flint. Usually one of these." He fishes a wrapped one out of a pocket and chucks it lightly at the boy. It's a Trojan, but nothing special otherwise. "The SCCU health clinic gives these out for free. They're in a giant bowl by the door, so you don't even have to speak to anyone. There are other methods of birth control, of course, but that one's easiest for a man and will protect you from disease. And before you say Garou don't get sick, I personally know of a Glass Walker who died of AIDS, back in the early 1990s, and we can still catch and spread things like herpes."
The cliath manages to look even more uncomfortable at this, setting the condom into one pocket of his jeans nonetheless. "Uh, oh. Okay," Flint says, voice turning a bit towards flat, tense. "Right, then." His voice cracks as he speaks, bringing a furrow of frustration to his brow, clearing his throat to follow, but overall, Flint sounds uncertain, and then brings his hands to push through his hair, before looking back up at Salem, the sort of 'what else?' look.
Salem folds his arms across his chest again. "At some point… one hopes… you will get urges. You'll probably have dreams, like the ones you probably had before you Firsted… only not at all like those. One hopes." He pauses to shift his weight a bit before continuing briskly. "This is normal. Don't worry about it and do what comes naturally. Fortunately for you, you have an entire internet's worth of free pornography. Just don't brick your laptop in perusing it. Use an ad-blocker, don't give any information out, be wary of the sites you use—" and here he rattles off a couple like it's the most normal thing in the world. "…and clean your goddamn history afterwards. Even better, use Chrome in Incognito mode."
Flint squints, tangling fingers to pull at a bit of his hair and shakes his head again. The tension of the moon shows now, too, and Flint steadies his breathing. "Is it normal to… not?" the boy asks, slowly.
Salem raises an eyebrow. Bluntly: "Normal not to have urges, or normal not to masturbate?"
Flint takes a deep breath and eventually loops his hands around his wrists. "Normal to not have urges, to…" And the face that Flint makes, brows furrowing and nose screwing up and a frown combined with elementary disgust, does a fairly succinct job of expressing the sentiment. "And normal to think that… to… is… isn't anything I. Really. I… even. E-even knowing, and, such, doesn't… mean I want to."
Salem sighs. "To be brutally honest, Flint, no, it's not normal." He frowns down at the teenager. "A boy your age should be a bundle of raging hormones and wetting the sheets at night from dreaming about tits." A shrug. "Or cock, as the case may be."
The cliath seems to consider this for a moment, a long moment of silence and fingers dig into his wrist for a time, then he shakes his head. "Nope… I… no more interested in guys than I… am in, in girls," Flint says, but he climbs to his feet, moving to lean against one of the worktables. "The. The… entire idea of sex? Is kinda repulsive a-and I… just. I want nothing to do with it." Flint leans on the table and looks down at the floor, at his feet. "It… I. Guess I'll. Just be back to, keeping busy and such."
Salem grunts and pushes off from his lean, his expression sour. "Fine. But, if you do develop… anything… or have any questions, find someone to talk to." He starts limping for the door. "Or research the subject online."
Flint nods again. "Okay," he acknowledges. "I will." Flint bites down on his lower lip, hard enough that it draws blood, moves over to lean against the sink, shoulders tense, cursing a moment under his breath.
Salem nods curtly and leaves the workshop, closing the door firmly behind him.