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

[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]

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