(no subject)
WHO: Byrons Watts & Byron Hale (SWINDLERS 1 & 2)
WHEN: Dec. 30, evening, about an hour before the party is canceled.
WHERE: The Byrons' apartment
WHAT: The swindlers finally succumb to their dread illness, as their radiator finally dies
RATING: R for language
STATUS: Log, thread
Hale: The problem with a loud, broken radiator was that he couldn't blame it on the dog. Well, that wasn't the only problem, but it was one of the most pressing. The only satisfaction Hale pressed from domestic disturbances of any sort was that he could usually tag their cause on the dog; with a broken radiator, even that small margin of pleasure was withheld from him. They'd gone out to purchase what alcohol requirements remained for an excellent New Years party. They were welcomed back to the apartment with a cacophony of foreboding (and familiar) bangs, despite a mutual hope that this was just a phase the radiator had gone through and would not return. This left the Byrons with running noses, bags full of alcohol, and one very loud living space. Hale was fond of the middle one, but the combination of the other two meant he couldn't even enjoy that.
Hale hung his head as he half-stomped into the apartment. The sound that escaped his--admittedly sore--throat was closest, perhaps, to "Glargh!", but longer and significantly more pained. It was followed by a sniff, and then a lackluster, "You have to be kidding me."
Watts: A steady diet of Nyquil and the inappropriate cuddling of a bottle of Southern Comfort on the subway left Watts significantly less grave about the problem than Hale. Having embraced the illness in hopes that if he really loved it, he could set it free. Whether it came back later was irrelevant, as long as later was after January first. Dumping a clanking paper bag on the kitchen island, he shuffled to the radiator with a sniffle, a cough, and the bottle of SoCo still cradled securely in the crook of his elbow. "This is your fault," he accused Hale woefully, crouching beside the radiator and wincing against its loud, wanton clangs of despair. It was emitting an intriguing lack of heat. "It was fine until you lied about being sick. You've upset its delicate and fragile trust."
Hale: "Well I'm sorry if what I said in the compendiums upset it," he said, loudly enough that it could still be heard, and hoarsely enough that he had to rub the exterior of his throat with one cold, cold hand. He did not join Watts in the kitchen. Rather, he crossed the room (dropping the liquor on the sofa so that it nearly, distractedly killed the sleeping dog) and eyed the loud, unfriendly radiator. He stared at it first from the lofty perch that was Hale, Standing; then he dropped into a crouch, a position it greeted with a clangerangityclang that nearly sent him backwards. Hale actually winced at this brutal insult, dragging in a deep, sniffly inhale. This position made him a little dizzy. Being ill made him a lot dizzy, and listening to such loud noises as were presently being produced... made him cross. "How can I make it trust me again?"
Watts: Watts ran his fingers soothingly along one lukewarm strip of metal, then sagged against it because his head throbbed and crouching was throwing off his equilibrium. "I don't know. Try wooing it, give it love and promises." His reply was mournful and void of hope, and he pat the radiator consolingly right as it made a deafening noise that could have been an internal clang, but was likely the shrieking of demonic hellions trying to find a portal to the mortal world. The bottle dropped to the floor with a thud, and he fell sideways with a hand clapped over his ear, which was probably pouring blood from his eardrum being exploded. This was not the case, but one would not guess so by the force of his glare. "Oh christ, it's hostile," he declared from the floor, kicking the radiator in retaliation. "We're under siege."
Hale: "Wooing will not work," he said bitterly, pushing himself up from the floor again. This was an exceptionally poor idea, said his spine, his neck, and the sloshing gray bowl that served as his brain. At some point in his college career he had known what that area was which controlled motion and balance, but just then, all he knew was that it had failed or was failing. Since Hale was very tall, the possibility of falling over covered a very long distance, and he caught himself with a palm on the wall. Somehow in the frantic shuffle of feet he'd ended up standing on the edge of his own shoe. This was less concerning than the fact that he'd put his other hand on the radiator to steady himself.
Since their radiator was not just aggressive but also burned a temperature that was capable of searing flesh, it could have been that the radiator's revenge would come by scalding off his fingerprints and a good portion of his palm. It chose a much subtler, more terrifying method of attack: touching the radiator was not too hot for him at all. He pulled up his hand as though a miracle had just occurred. Then he touched it again.
Watts: As Hale gave the radiator some sort of massage, Watts pulled himself back to a sitting position. His sinuses protested with the sluggish ache of shifting mucus, and he was forced to breathe through his mouth as he reached possessively for his stray bottle of whiskey. "Piece of shite," he muttered once the bottle was clutched to his chest again, and his ear drum had proven not to be graphically spurting forth its innards. The violent source of appalling little heat replied with a clang. It was mocking him--mocking them both with its ghastly dirge. The fate of the party, of the last moments of the world possibly, for everyone knew there were high odds of an apocalypse at the tide of every new year, was being jeopardized. Even the fire hazard of indoor tiki torches and ample space heaters would not appropriately heat a loft with the door open open for roof access. Appalled and betrayed, he kicked out at the radiator again, this time harder and with more coordination. It gave a menacing hiss and vibrated; his foot, in its flimsy canvas with a thin rubber sole throbbed in time.
Hale: Yes, 2007 was apt to go out with a bang if this continued, though Hale was more likely to toss himself from the roof of their building before they made it through that many hours of noises like these. The resulting clang from Watts' angry advance upon the radiator was obscured, somewhat, by Hale's cough--the first truly ugly cough of this illness, and a grim sign of things to come. While his lungs recovered, his eyes attempted to glower holes into the radiator, which only cussed metalically in reply. Everything about this was a bad sign. It sounded like a battleship was sinking. This made sense, in a way, because by the hour it became increasingly difficult for Hale to breathe. Pursing his lips to the side of his mouth, Hale shuffled away from the heater, grabbing the bag he'd left on the sofa, ignoring the dog who watched their failed attempts to reconcile with the heater, and setting it on the counter with a thunk to rival the ones it was making. His actions were prim and decisive, dual challenges with a brain full of sludge. He peeled back the paper bag.
"Motherfucker," he said conversationally.
Watts: Retreating to the moderate safety of the couch, Watts curled into a corner and coughed viciously into the armrest. He felt boneless, but heavy. Defeated, but determined. "Bring me," he began through a gruesome sniff, groping in his coat pocket for a tissue. "Bring me that...wrench." There could be no question of what wrench. While the Byrons adhered to the rule of masculinity dictating they must own tools, there was only a fragmented set between them. The wrench was enormous and shined silver from disuse, and he had bought it six years ago under the guise that it was necessary to his masculinity, and could be useful to bludgeon an intruder to the dingy studio flat he was inhabiting at the time. In reality, he bought it because it looked like something Bullet Tooth Tony would have used on Bricktop if he hadn't been shot to death first. Where the wrench was currently residing, he could not say, but certainly it was closer to Hale than himself.
Hale: Hale knew exactly the wrench to which Watts was referring. Its location was more of a mystery. The last time he remembered having it, he'd fixed a leak under the sink, and felt exceedingly masculine and productive for its mending. The sink had since started (and stopped) leaking again, but the tool by which these changes were applied was lost to him. He would not have given it to Watts in this case, anyway. This was only half laziness; allowing his dear, sick friend to disassemble an appliance full of hot steam did not seem like any sort of good idea. Hale considered just how bad an idea it was while he settled the bottles ofliquor in a cabinet, with their friends, who would doubtless console them about cold and trying times ahead. "I am not giving you the wrench. I don't even know where it is."