AIM Log: Hunter and Roger
Hunter came into the room with a towel around his waist, hair dripping onto the floor as he glanced at the pile of clothes at the foot of his bed and started sorting through it, sniffing for the cleanest stuff. He didn't feel like trying to find decent shit from the clothes box today. Maybe later he'd go do some laundry or something, if Claire didn't distract him.
What Roger really didn't understand about the teenaged boy that he so arrogantly thrust into his own care was why he was always up at the asscrack of dawn. He should ask him.
"Why in fuck's hell do you feel the need to get up so early," the lump of covers that formed Roger Davis asked.
Hunter glanced over and shrugged, despite it being a pointless motion, as Roger's eyes likely weren't open even beneath the blanket covering his head. "I dunno. Habit, I guess. I was a good little schoolboy, yanno." He snorted and sat on the edge of the bed, losing the towel to pull on underwear and jeans.
"Bullshit," Roger said, and emerged from his comforter bleary-eyed and still hung-over from his birthday festivities. He sat up and rubbed at his eyes.
"Where the fuck are you going?"
"Out," Hunter replied sullenly. Okay, he was really just going to get some breakfast and then see if he could get some more comics from the bookshelf--Claire seemed to dig them, and was willing to listen to long histories on the characters, which was cool and kinda fun. But sullen teenage habits died hard.
Roger threw the blanket off of him to reveal that he was in nothing more than his skull-and-crossbones boxers, and those were riding low enough that his star tattoos were visable on his hip, but only the one side was that low.
"Christ, I'm not your keeper. I was just fuckin' wondering. What's up your ass?"
Hunter was used to the sight by now, and his initial...he wouldn't call it a 'crush' really, but whatever--had faded to respect and admiration, with a healthy dose of annoyance that living with someone else made unavoidable. But he still didn't feel like explaining to Roger what was 'up his ass'. "Nothing. You hungry?" He pulled a t-shirt over his head and jammed his feet into the flip flops nearby, glancing absently at Roger's feet as he did. "...What the fuck happened to your toes?"
After meeting Prior... their conversation and... everything else, he looked down and expected to see his foot blackened and spotted with lesions, but all he saw was the pink polish.
"Your girlfriend happened to my toes," Roger said, visably relaxing a bit. "And I'll get food in a minute, but I gotta talk to you first. Sit." He gestured lazily to the bed, obviously still not fully awake.
Hunter didn't sit so much as flop, leaning back on his hands and flipping his increasingly too-long hair out of his eyes. "All right. 'Sup?" Oh, they weren't done discussing Roger's girly-toes, but he could tell this was something important.
Oh, how to explain this? The kiss was definitely not going to be making an appearance, if he could help it, and he wanted to explain as little as possible, to be fair to Prior.
"There's gonna be... a guy looking for me. Tonight. Around 5." He scratched a hand through his hair. "So if I'm not in, it's important that you come find me."
Hunter raised an eyebrow. "You gotta date?" he asked with a faint smirk. Either that or he was dealing drugs, from his expression and tone. It was all very mysterious and very interesting.
"None of the above, and none of your fucking business," Roger said, his accent making a cameo appearance with the latter part of the sentence. "His name is Prior. Just... if I'm not here, come find me, OK? You'll know him. He has my pager."
Hunter's eyes widened, then narrowed at the last bit of info. "Your pager? What the fuck's he doing with that?" Fuck that none of his fucking business shit. He told Roger everyth-- Okay, almost everything, anyway.
Really, if Hunter just stopped to think, he could probably figure it out. But Roger sincerely hoped he didn't. At least, not until he saw Prior.
"Don't worry about it, Hunter, OK? Are you fucking listening?"
Hunter rolled his eyes and glared, getting up off of the bed. "Yeah, yeah. Five o'clock. Mysterious guy. If you're not here, come find you." He shot a particularly obstinate look at Roger and added, "That about cover it?"
For a moment, Roger contemplated banging his head against the wall.
"Jesus, Hunter, what?!"
"Oh, nothin," Hunter said back. "It's fine. Treat me like a little kid. Whatever." He rolled his eyes. "Are we done?"
And then, Roger did thump the back of his head against the wall. Hard.
"I'm not treating you like a fucking kid, Hunter, the man is fucking sick!" And there it was, in Roger-fashion, all out on the table with no way to take it back.
So, Roger pushed past Hunter and headed for the door to the bathroom.
Hunter blinked. He wasn't stupid, and the connections all dropped into place in like, a half-second or so. "He's..." He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair, asking Roger's back quietly, "So why'idn't you just fuckin' tell me that?"
The muscles in Roger's back seemed to tense one by one up his spine until the tattoo that spanned his entire upper back was seemingly dancing, and that's what Hunter had to see of Roger until he turned his neck only to glance in Hunter's approximate direction.
"How would you like it if I went around calling you 'my positive roommate?' That's what who he is, Hunter."
"It's not the same thing, asshole," Hunter snapped. He wasn't suggesting Roger should tell everyone this Prior guy was pos. But Hunter was not only Roger's roommate, a bond which apparently meant more to him than it did to the older man, but he was pos, too. Not that that entitled him to know everyone's HIV status or some shit, just...it was always good to know, in a way. To be reminded that there are other people with it, that there was support to be found if you needed it. Not that he did. He had Ben and Roger, and that was all he needed. Even if he wanted to throw a shoe at the latter's head right now for being a cockjob.
The petulence is what made Roger whirl around, and he did so with surprising speed.
"I'm not talking about this, anymore, Hunter. You can be pissed at me later, whatever the fuck you want. But for now, you need to be listening. And following."
"I don't need to be doing anything," Hunter replied coldly. "You're not my fucking keeper, remember?"
Roger moved in closer, inches from Hunter's face, shoulders squared and leaning down.
"I am not Ben. And I don't owe you anything. When I took you in, it was for Michael, but you know why I keep you here, Hunter? Do you? Because I fucking like you around! So go around thinking that I keep you chained up here like the holy fucking palace slave, but my toenails are fucking pink, Hunter! Do you think I'd have pink fucking toenails if I didn't think something was worth keeping? And that's you, and that's Claire." He sighed. The crescendo his voice had taken on was finally working its way back to a more neutral decrescendo.
"That's so not...I mean, I wasn't saying that you..." He took a slightly unsteady breath and lowered his eyes. "...You really wanna keep me here?" he asked quietly. It was still such a weird fucking concept to him, just being wanted. And not for his mouth, or his body, but for who he was.
God, Roger had not wanted to talk about this. Ever. And that was apparent by the way his hand went through his hair, again.
"Yes," he confirmed, standing a little taller. "Yeah, Hunter. I like the dumb shit we do and talk about. And I... even like Claire but don't tell her." He cracked a half-smile.
It was amazing, the change that a little positive reinforcement could still have in him. He was calm now, smiling back at Roger's comment. "Cross my heart," he agreed, even vaguely making the gesture. "So...anyway. That's....cool. I mean, I like the shit we do, too. And I promise, when this guy shows up, I'll come find you." He added quickly, "And I won't tell him that you told me."
For a moment, Roger almost told Hunter that there was no way he couldn't know, but he didn't.
"Thanks," Roger said, holding out a hand for Hunter.
Hunter looked at the offered hand, then took it with a little grin. "No prob. What are roomies for, right?"
A manly handshake and a hug equally as manly later, Roger was backing away from Hunter smiling. It was like nothing had happened.
"Sure, man. And if you ever don't feel like I'm taking one for the team? Toenails."
"Dude. How did she get you to let her do that?" Hunter asked with a grin, glancing down. "If she wanted to do that to me she'd have to--" Yeah, okay. Not gonna finish that train of thought. Roger was cool, but there was some shit he didn't need to know about. "...I don't think there's much of anything she could do," he finished lamely, because it so wasn't true.
"Thanks for not finishing that," Roger told him, nodding his assurance. "Anyway, we were bored." He sighed. He should warn Hunter that a shitstorm in the form of sexual activity was ahead, but things were going so well. And really, it was none of his business.
"I have never in my life been bored enough for pink sparkly toenails," Hunter said, laughing a little as he headed for the door. Now that they were square, he was fucking starving.
"Don't fall asleep, then!" Roger called after Hunter, and smiling, he headed for the shower, grabbing a badly discarded towel along the way. He was in a considerably better mood.
What Roger really didn't understand about the teenaged boy that he so arrogantly thrust into his own care was why he was always up at the asscrack of dawn. He should ask him.
"Why in fuck's hell do you feel the need to get up so early," the lump of covers that formed Roger Davis asked.
Hunter glanced over and shrugged, despite it being a pointless motion, as Roger's eyes likely weren't open even beneath the blanket covering his head. "I dunno. Habit, I guess. I was a good little schoolboy, yanno." He snorted and sat on the edge of the bed, losing the towel to pull on underwear and jeans.
"Bullshit," Roger said, and emerged from his comforter bleary-eyed and still hung-over from his birthday festivities. He sat up and rubbed at his eyes.
"Where the fuck are you going?"
"Out," Hunter replied sullenly. Okay, he was really just going to get some breakfast and then see if he could get some more comics from the bookshelf--Claire seemed to dig them, and was willing to listen to long histories on the characters, which was cool and kinda fun. But sullen teenage habits died hard.
Roger threw the blanket off of him to reveal that he was in nothing more than his skull-and-crossbones boxers, and those were riding low enough that his star tattoos were visable on his hip, but only the one side was that low.
"Christ, I'm not your keeper. I was just fuckin' wondering. What's up your ass?"
Hunter was used to the sight by now, and his initial...he wouldn't call it a 'crush' really, but whatever--had faded to respect and admiration, with a healthy dose of annoyance that living with someone else made unavoidable. But he still didn't feel like explaining to Roger what was 'up his ass'. "Nothing. You hungry?" He pulled a t-shirt over his head and jammed his feet into the flip flops nearby, glancing absently at Roger's feet as he did. "...What the fuck happened to your toes?"
After meeting Prior... their conversation and... everything else, he looked down and expected to see his foot blackened and spotted with lesions, but all he saw was the pink polish.
"Your girlfriend happened to my toes," Roger said, visably relaxing a bit. "And I'll get food in a minute, but I gotta talk to you first. Sit." He gestured lazily to the bed, obviously still not fully awake.
Hunter didn't sit so much as flop, leaning back on his hands and flipping his increasingly too-long hair out of his eyes. "All right. 'Sup?" Oh, they weren't done discussing Roger's girly-toes, but he could tell this was something important.
Oh, how to explain this? The kiss was definitely not going to be making an appearance, if he could help it, and he wanted to explain as little as possible, to be fair to Prior.
"There's gonna be... a guy looking for me. Tonight. Around 5." He scratched a hand through his hair. "So if I'm not in, it's important that you come find me."
Hunter raised an eyebrow. "You gotta date?" he asked with a faint smirk. Either that or he was dealing drugs, from his expression and tone. It was all very mysterious and very interesting.
"None of the above, and none of your fucking business," Roger said, his accent making a cameo appearance with the latter part of the sentence. "His name is Prior. Just... if I'm not here, come find me, OK? You'll know him. He has my pager."
Hunter's eyes widened, then narrowed at the last bit of info. "Your pager? What the fuck's he doing with that?" Fuck that none of his fucking business shit. He told Roger everyth-- Okay, almost everything, anyway.
Really, if Hunter just stopped to think, he could probably figure it out. But Roger sincerely hoped he didn't. At least, not until he saw Prior.
"Don't worry about it, Hunter, OK? Are you fucking listening?"
Hunter rolled his eyes and glared, getting up off of the bed. "Yeah, yeah. Five o'clock. Mysterious guy. If you're not here, come find you." He shot a particularly obstinate look at Roger and added, "That about cover it?"
For a moment, Roger contemplated banging his head against the wall.
"Jesus, Hunter, what?!"
"Oh, nothin," Hunter said back. "It's fine. Treat me like a little kid. Whatever." He rolled his eyes. "Are we done?"
And then, Roger did thump the back of his head against the wall. Hard.
"I'm not treating you like a fucking kid, Hunter, the man is fucking sick!" And there it was, in Roger-fashion, all out on the table with no way to take it back.
So, Roger pushed past Hunter and headed for the door to the bathroom.
Hunter blinked. He wasn't stupid, and the connections all dropped into place in like, a half-second or so. "He's..." He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair, asking Roger's back quietly, "So why'idn't you just fuckin' tell me that?"
The muscles in Roger's back seemed to tense one by one up his spine until the tattoo that spanned his entire upper back was seemingly dancing, and that's what Hunter had to see of Roger until he turned his neck only to glance in Hunter's approximate direction.
"How would you like it if I went around calling you 'my positive roommate?' That's what who he is, Hunter."
"It's not the same thing, asshole," Hunter snapped. He wasn't suggesting Roger should tell everyone this Prior guy was pos. But Hunter was not only Roger's roommate, a bond which apparently meant more to him than it did to the older man, but he was pos, too. Not that that entitled him to know everyone's HIV status or some shit, just...it was always good to know, in a way. To be reminded that there are other people with it, that there was support to be found if you needed it. Not that he did. He had Ben and Roger, and that was all he needed. Even if he wanted to throw a shoe at the latter's head right now for being a cockjob.
The petulence is what made Roger whirl around, and he did so with surprising speed.
"I'm not talking about this, anymore, Hunter. You can be pissed at me later, whatever the fuck you want. But for now, you need to be listening. And following."
"I don't need to be doing anything," Hunter replied coldly. "You're not my fucking keeper, remember?"
Roger moved in closer, inches from Hunter's face, shoulders squared and leaning down.
"I am not Ben. And I don't owe you anything. When I took you in, it was for Michael, but you know why I keep you here, Hunter? Do you? Because I fucking like you around! So go around thinking that I keep you chained up here like the holy fucking palace slave, but my toenails are fucking pink, Hunter! Do you think I'd have pink fucking toenails if I didn't think something was worth keeping? And that's you, and that's Claire." He sighed. The crescendo his voice had taken on was finally working its way back to a more neutral decrescendo.
"That's so not...I mean, I wasn't saying that you..." He took a slightly unsteady breath and lowered his eyes. "...You really wanna keep me here?" he asked quietly. It was still such a weird fucking concept to him, just being wanted. And not for his mouth, or his body, but for who he was.
God, Roger had not wanted to talk about this. Ever. And that was apparent by the way his hand went through his hair, again.
"Yes," he confirmed, standing a little taller. "Yeah, Hunter. I like the dumb shit we do and talk about. And I... even like Claire but don't tell her." He cracked a half-smile.
It was amazing, the change that a little positive reinforcement could still have in him. He was calm now, smiling back at Roger's comment. "Cross my heart," he agreed, even vaguely making the gesture. "So...anyway. That's....cool. I mean, I like the shit we do, too. And I promise, when this guy shows up, I'll come find you." He added quickly, "And I won't tell him that you told me."
For a moment, Roger almost told Hunter that there was no way he couldn't know, but he didn't.
"Thanks," Roger said, holding out a hand for Hunter.
Hunter looked at the offered hand, then took it with a little grin. "No prob. What are roomies for, right?"
A manly handshake and a hug equally as manly later, Roger was backing away from Hunter smiling. It was like nothing had happened.
"Sure, man. And if you ever don't feel like I'm taking one for the team? Toenails."
"Dude. How did she get you to let her do that?" Hunter asked with a grin, glancing down. "If she wanted to do that to me she'd have to--" Yeah, okay. Not gonna finish that train of thought. Roger was cool, but there was some shit he didn't need to know about. "...I don't think there's much of anything she could do," he finished lamely, because it so wasn't true.
"Thanks for not finishing that," Roger told him, nodding his assurance. "Anyway, we were bored." He sighed. He should warn Hunter that a shitstorm in the form of sexual activity was ahead, but things were going so well. And really, it was none of his business.
"I have never in my life been bored enough for pink sparkly toenails," Hunter said, laughing a little as he headed for the door. Now that they were square, he was fucking starving.
"Don't fall asleep, then!" Roger called after Hunter, and smiling, he headed for the shower, grabbing a badly discarded towel along the way. He was in a considerably better mood.