a_perfect_end | [READ] Letters and Assorted Mail [IC]

[ Another day of rain, another day of wet, another day of mud up to their eyeballs during training. Neither fastidious nor a total slob, Flynn weathers it like a man just happy to be alive and still capable of experiencing it. Mindfulness is a practice he's not yet skilled at, and assumes he won't ever quite get, but it's still useful to him. Like now, when the rain has spent hours thrashing every last man and woman in the courtyard, a steady drumbeat over the silver song of clashing steel and the chorus of voices: encouragement and dismay, correction and swears bright and sizzling as a string of firecrackers.

For a second he takes it all in, the water dripping from his chin, the shield in his hand that's not as heavy as it once was, the way his sandals stick and sink in the squelching earth. There's a soreness in his left shoulder, radiating through his bicep, and tightening as he cools down from the rain. Across the courtyard, Clu seems to be working hard, just as wet and muddy as the rest of them, daubed in shades of brown and cool grey.

Yeah, he's out.

The bath starts as a simple idea, just a bar of soap and the endless rain, but the longer he thinks on it, the less satisfying that sounds. They have the facilities, so...why not? It takes time to accomplish, but they have that in spades here, and Tacita does not seem keen to let the larger group go early on account of the weather. Once everything is sorted, he has only to locate a certain someone from the mess of soggy individuals in the courtyard, and beelines to Clu once his impromptu wrestling match seems to have ended. ]

You're filthy!

[ That is definite approval. Wow, he's got it everywhere, hasn't he? Flynn sidles up alongside the admin, offering a clean, if already wet, towel for his face. ]

Did you win? C'mon, let's get inside. I have a surprise for you.

Edited 2018-07-15 05:56 (UTC)

[The rain, rain, rain has made a sodden mudheap of the world, and like everything it's--overwhelming, intense and different and disgusting, but only in the general background way that everything is--and this far into the complex it's just earth and water, not--everything else.

He waves, but not too hard; his arm slaps wet to his side.]

I am! [It's the same pitch but a different register, joy hard-edged with triumph.]

Guess I did. [It's beginning to dawn on him that you can't actually win practice, if slowly. Still:] You should see the other guy.

[Clu dances back a little, suddenly too conscious of wet-dirt-wet--all over--

The towel, however, is caught with a grateful chuckle and ground over his face with gusto.]

Oh, man, thank you.

[That's better.]

Let's get out of here.

[And on the heels of that, hopeful, bright as an echo:]

Surprise?

You're welcome.

[ As to his question, Flynn has an inscrutable smile. ]

Yeah!

[ Let him steer you, friend, away from Minerva and into Vulcan instead. Yes, right now is necessary, as Flynn beelines for a door opposite the stairs and pushes it open for Clu.

Steam rolls out like a red carpet for them, beckoning warmly in the chill air. Inside, the soaking tub to one side of the room is full of clean, piping hot water– another, smaller tub he'd dragged in is full, too. A brazier in the corner has more water heating, and there are towels stacked on one of the stone ledges, beside soap and a few other odds and ends for bathing, with nary a strigil in sight. There is also, well away from where they could get wet, a stack of clean, dry tunics, Clu's stealthily-pilfered paenula already drying over a line Flynn had rigged, the hem of the heavy cloak scrubbed free of yesterday's mud. Two birds with one stone, right? ]

Surprise, buddy.

[He knows that look, the sphinx grin that means any answers will be demonstrated, and while their route is familiar, the reasons for it remain mysterious until Flynn brushes ahead of him and flings the door back with an irrepressible grin.

After day on day of oppressive damp, the heat in the air glides over sore muscles like a drift of silk. The tub is drawn full and hot, still smoking steam, towels nestled on a shelf opposite that also boasts actual soap--soap, not oil, and no prying themselves dry with sticks.]

...Oh. [Eyes wide, possessed of a sudden certainty that he may be dreaming, even as it dawns on him how much work is in heating even a little water; and given the volume of it gathered before them here--] Oh.

[The time this must have taken! The thought and care that went into it--and when (how) did he swipe Clu's paenula, of all things?

And it's clean! Everything is clean.]

This is-- [His eyes are smarting, suddenly, and he blinks it away. Must be the steam.] This, it's, perfect.

[ Perfect. That spurs the brief duck of his head. Flynn nudges the door closed to keep the cold out, and leans down to pull his sandals off, tossing them aside to clean a little later. Right now, his priority is the Admin still taking it all in.

He makes a little noise of satisfaction at Clu's side, and gives his muddy sleeve an affectionate tug, warm pleasure read all too easily in his expression. ]

It's all yours, man. After– [ a minor amendment, glancing over his friend's filthy state, hands already gliding over the fastenings of his belt, ] –we de-encrust you a bit.

[And it does take him a minute. Life here quickly taught him what real effort was, what real discomfort was--what loss was. He hadn't expected it to teach him gratitude, or something more, affection welling sharp and sudden.

He's very touched. That hasn't happened for a long time, unexpected and wonderful. He's also briefly hung up on what to say, what to do.

But Flynn's gentle pull at his sleeve brings him around.]

Ah, that. [He is rather crunchy. With a dismayed chuckle:] Can you help me, with--

[Another lesson from life here: everything has fasteners, and they are always a pain.

Still, the belt at least is short enough work for the both of them, the sandals following more naturally from there--should he have started there? Do these things have a firing order? But Flynn doesn't seem to mind, making himself a good leaning post for a second. Clu sighs a little for the sandals coming off, finally, because he hadn't known wet feet could bother him anymore, after the first day--but that's so much better. The tunica is sodden and heavy, so thickly grimed with mud in places that it's actually flaking a little now that it's out of the constant rain.

They tussle for it, briefly, Clu trying to fold it as Flynn tries to take it, until he lets go smiling through a huff.

They'll get there.]

[ It's a Process, but worth the time spent, as Flynn laughs gently through Clu's slow emergence from the layers of wet wool and leather. ]

Let me worry about that.

[ He can surely handle his shorts without assistance, so Flynn breaks away to toss the dirty tunica in the pile and wriggle free of his own, wet from darting across the courtyard, gathering supplies. Even in the orange firelight, the black ♇ on his ribs stands out starkly, a reminder of just how fortunate he truly is.

The pot of water he left behind to heat is merrily steaming away, ready to empty into both tubs. No no, he's got this, barehanded thanks to Vulcan, but Clu ought to grab the soap while he finishes up. Pot soon refilled from the aqueduct-fed spigot at the room's end, placed back on the brazier, and Flynn bends to dip a clean bucket in the smaller tub.

He makes sure it's not scalding–that would be unfortunate–before he bears his prize up with him again. ]

You ready?

[ Ready or not, here comes a rain of gloriously hot, clean water. ]

[Being free of the constant press of wet wool is a very good thing, down to the skin all over with the last of the linen dispensed and all their things in a pile. Hands busy after making neater rows, Clu's focus narrows a moment on the lean line of Flynn's upper back as he steps free of his own damp garments, ribs barbed with the dark scar of vital favor.

He hasn't asked, though he wants to. Timing's not right. Not with the weather the way it is, not with the river in riot and famine by turns, and not so soon. Puzzles keep themselves, and it's a gift that he's here at all.

He puts it out of his mind, resolute, and seizes the soap with a wolf's grin. Finally, no more dirt.]

Man! [Breathless with a full-body shudder, jolted by warmth, bracing and welcome and good. There is actual steam on the exhale, luxuriant.] Yes. Better. Best idea.

[The water on the stones is grey, flecked with bits of leaf, and so the bucket falls a fair few times before he finally runs decently clean. It loosens muscles he hadn't known were tense, puts a quick flush in his skin.

But when Flynn's at him with it again, he makes a grab for it.]

Here, gimme. Your turn. You're gonna get cold.

Dude!

[ It's a brief protest–he's already splashed himself a half-dozen times, he's warm–before he relents. A trade-off then, water for the cake of soap, and isn't that the most blissful thing in the world right now? ]

I meant to ask; does that– [ he's known the ring on Clu's back was there since they got here, a curious stand-in for his disc, sharply dark against his pale skin. When he turns, Flynn brushes one hot, soapy hand to his shoulder blade, finishing the low, soft remark, ] –feel like anything?

[ He traces the low swing of that hard circle of black with his thumb, light as breath. ]

Edited 2018-07-29 23:07 (UTC)

Dude.

[Fair is fair: give bucket, receive joy. And also soap. This is not complicated.

Except, maybe, for that.]

That? [The heel of his hand sliding hot, and there in the track of his thumb sparks feedback Clu must be imagining, because nothing does that here--must be memory of senses he no longer has. He draws breath in with a hiss.] Yeah, that's a little, sensitive.

[ While his other hand has lifted up to mirror the first, soap left forgotten on the ledge, both freeze momentarily, assessing, concerned.

Oh no. ]

Does it hurt?

[The strangeness, the eerie but familiar way way his nerves are singing is not a hurt. He’s not injured.

Flynn’s dismay pulls at something sharp in his chest.]

No! No, not at all. [With a slight duck of his head, lip in his teeth] That’s just—intense.

[ Well, now his interest is piqued. He suspects...actually, he's not sure what he suspects–

His fingers sweep soap bubbles down Clu's back and up once more, drawn inexorably to that disc and daring–so faintly!–to trace a circle inside it, the palm-sized space where his dock ought to be. Electricity tingles low in his gut, but it must be imagined, surely. ]

How? [ Very, very gently, ] Tell me about it?

Edited 2018-07-30 10:26 (UTC)

[Tell him? How to describe it, the reaction clear and strong but somehow changed—the hair at the nape of his neck fans almost vertical for the attention.]

It’s like—! [Fingers tracing live heat into the roots of his brain in a way that has him shifting restlessly on the bench] I can feel you, when you do that, and it’s good.

[ He finds a knot of muscle in the outer ring, where the edge of Clu's shoulder blade borders the ink, and idly sets to working it out. ]

Good! I, uh– [ Electricity turns over into a slow flare of heat, as hot as the steaming water. Flynn wets his lips, his mouth dry. ] Good.

[The tension is what comes of holding himself back, of waiting to see what others’ reactions are to things they take for standard—and also of overdoing it in the mud. He still doesn’t quite have the trick of balance, at, anything, even as he’s gaining strength and skill.

It’s good that even one other person understands.

And that feels great, insistent fingers digging out an entirely genuine groan of relief.]

Yeah. [The word stretched low and lazy, spine flexed to draw his shoulder blades closer together—to nudge the hand tending them.

Because that’s—he wonders.]

What about you? You feel anything?

Edited 2018-07-31 07:14 (UTC)

[ The knot gives under the gliding pressure of his thumbs, working heat and affectionate care into the sore little spot.

Clu's groan itself scores a path up his spine, running fingers into his hair. Feel anything? He feels more than he probably should. ]

Well, I– [ Flynn's chuckle is low and dark, an effort to ease his own tension, while he keeps tracing the black line work with quiet fascination. ] It's hard to say, man.

[ Two cupped handfuls of water rinse the soap from his back. His fingers can't stray too far, now that he's here, and close, murmuring his answer over Clu's shoulder. ] Tingling, warm. A rush like...like pure energy.

[Clu hadn't thought he could relax any further, half-melted under the deft pressure of dedicated strong fingers and gently rinsed clean. Flynn hovers close, thoroughly absorbed, pressing the truth low against his shoulder.

Clu feels a lot better about that than he should, which no towel is gonna hide for long, and anyway he's not wearing one.

But it's more than that, or more than just that. It's more even than the live-wire thrum of very old input in brand new senses--there's a wash of curiosity, an intent interest he can almost feel in his veins, all his nerves alive with fascination.]

Yeah, [drawn out slow, breath back in with the steam through his teeth] it's a lot like that. Is that even a thing, here? [He really should be more precise.] You feel good, all invested in a problem.

[There's no sting in it, low and playful.]

What're you working on back there, anyway?

[ He never really let his touch stray into Clu's circuits at home. Tron explained once, in his usually straightforward way, the intimacy of it, the exchange of energy and more that had him temporarily concerned he'd been throwing off all sorts of mixed signals to anyone he'd ever come in contact with. Was there an obvious Program signal that blared DTF that he, the only User, didn't realize he was broadcasting?

Flynn traces the border of that tattoo one last time, and drags his fingers aside, to slip his arms around Clu and pull him in close. ]

You.

[READ] Letters and Assorted Mail [IC]

/action; early march

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