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thisclockworkheart) wrote2023-12-20 11:30 am
Golden Peacock Inbox & Open Season App
6♥ [SIX of HEARTS]
UN: pinocchio
AUDIO ✧ VIDEO ✧ TEXT ✧ ACTION
20 / male / unknown / 6♥
Details
The strong and silent type who doesn't like to brag! Or say much of anything. I'm sure this delicious snack has lots to say once you break through his dashingly wooden and icy exterior!
He says he's a stalker -- not that we judge, honey! We all have our vices!
Small correction, guys, gals, and nonbinary pals. A Stalker is a vocation, something about mercenary work.
This cherry boy is single and ready to mingle!
He plays the piano and says he's good with a sword. He even expressed interest in finding a few like-minded sparring partners! You know that that means, he's great with his hands and one of them is! Metal! A! F!
(This space, perhaps intentionally, has been left blank.)
(No information. Perhaps the original drafter of this post abandoned it halfway through.)
NO ANSWER GIVEN
.02 CLOWNS OR MIMES
NO ANSWER GIVEN
.03 SHOWER OR BATH
NO ANSWER GIVEN
.04 PIRATES OR NINJAS
NO ANSWER GIVEN
.05 TITS OR ASS
NO ANSWER GIVEN
.06 COFFEE OR TEA
NO ANSWER GIVEN
.07 SPICY OR SWEET
NO ANSWER GIVEN
.08 SUMMER OR WINTER
NO ANSWER GIVEN
.09 LEATHER OR LACE
AN ANSWER! BOTH.
10. ROUGH SEX OR GENTLE SEX
NO ANSWER GIVEN
INFP-T
Text; un: Cerberus
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I can talk freely. Not on here though.
[Pinocchio will find that Wriothesley had tucked a crumpled wad of paper so that the locking mechanism can’t shut the door completely.]
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[ Gone are the days when he asks why about everything. In using their safeword, he expects this is serious. The seventh floor isn't nearly as crowded and labyrinthine as the basement. Still, it's on his second pass up the hallway that he realizes one door is slightly ajar.
Three (metallic) raps followed by a single one. The scrape of metal joints around the handle, and Pinocchio pushes his way inside, with a darting glance around the unfamiliar space, checking first if he's alone, second if it's safe. For Wriothesley, not for him. ]
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Pinocchio will find Wriothesley in the common space area. The large, lavish windows don’t show a sky scenery, but that of in the water. The space is illuminated in a peaceful blue, washing the warden’s figure in it. He was standing, looking at the fake scenery. Cigarette in one hand, the glowing embers giving a slight glow but nothing that washes out the calm hues. In his other hand was a tea cup saucer. The figure he cut was… lonely.
Everything felt off. The way he held the saucer in his slack hand while nursing a cigarette. The shattered tea cup on the floor, tea and China splashed on the floor and forgotten.
Wriothesley turns and smiles. The smile ways heavy at the corner of his lips and don’t crinkle at his eyes.] Hey. Did you have trouble finding the room?
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Then again, all of Pinocchio's memories of deep water were smothering and cold ones, footnotes in a book heavy with death and rewound time. It's not there for his benefit, but he presumes it may be for the boxer.
Pinocchio's fingers ease away from the handle of the knife hidden inside the waistband of his pants, under the drapery of a tucked shirt. Wriothesley's troubling smile may have an external cause, but it's none he can see, let alone fight. ]
No, [ he lies. That isn't the point. ] I like the new quarters. [ And that's not the point, either. His eyes drop to the shattered cup. It looks more to him like a consequence, a symptom. Something that whispers he's upset, even as his clockwork brain is confused by his smile. It's his Ergo that intimates that the smile lies about as much as he does; Pinocchio isn't in the meticulous state of dress he often is found in — just a simple Darcy shirt with a ruffled, deep-cut collar, high-waisted pants, simple black socks and leather shoes. Nary a waistcoat or lacy cravat to be found when he draws near, shutting the door behind him.
Or tries. He's done nothing about what was wadded up to keep it from latching. ]
What happened? You used our word.
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As Pinocchio's gaze drops to the forgotten china, so does his gaze land back on it. Almost like he didn't realize it was there. Of course, that is never the case. Wriothesley is too sharp and too aware.
While Pinocchio is dressed down more than his usual, Wriothesley is dressed as sharp as ever. Carefully pressed shirt and vest and a posture that does not offer any weakness. It almost makes it more glaring that there is something off when coupled with the shattered tea cup and the saucer in his other hand. The strange image he has made of himself.]
Oh? Perhaps I just wanted to see you and I decided to be a little irresponsible. [Again, he smiles, but it lacks the relaxed and leisurely gait that he usually holds. Wriothesley would do it, perhaps once, but he is one to make it obvious if that were the case.
Wriothesley turns back at the simulated scenery.] Pinocchio, if someone you were fond of ended up here and then leaves. How would you feel? I will answer your question, but if you could humor me for the moment, I'd appreciate it.
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A part of him wants to do this for him. The rest acknowledges that it might be his affection for the man — or that he was simply built this way. To serve, and doing this scratches an oft-neglected itch. Resenting the thought, he focuses instead on Wriothesley's words, the sound of his voice. The pieces clink and chatter while he listens, huffs a soft laugh at irresponsible.
Pinocchio is good company for mischief and irresponsible decisions. Especially without his cricket guide to keep him on the straight and narrow. The question makes his activity pause, his chin tipping up to direct one visible blue eye towards Wriothesley's back, now turned toward him. His gaze drops, thoughtfully, the muffled chuckle of busy clockwork betraying the mental exercise. ]
That depends. For some, life here might be an improvement at the cost of freedom. For others... I suppose I'd be relieved by their departure.
[ A pragmatic answer. Here comes the selfish one. ] Their absence would... preoccupy me.
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His hands lay against his side, not knowing what to do with his hands other than to stand there uselessly.
He smiles a little and there is something very lonely about it.] Preoccupy huh? That’s a good word. I’m preoccupied then.
[He looks out towards the aquatic scenery.] A few people whom are from my world are here. I’m sure that there are more but I’ve met a handful of them. Some of them were colleagues. People I knew well. [Furina, maybe he didn’t know personally, but who didn’t know their beloved Hydro Archon??? Neuvillette…] Both of them are gone.
[His Archon, even if she was a puppet in the end, was still his Archon. The Hydro Sovereign even. If two people whom he thought held so much power now were merely decor for the resort, what was he? A man with his fists and a Vision.
It felt heavy, the weight. He didn’t know what to do with it.]
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Like he misses Stiles. The constellation of moles on his cheek, the charmingly American dialect that always had an interesting fact to share or a joke he didn't quite get, the expressive bounce of his dark brows. They don't come from the same kind of life or even from the same century, so they don't have the same kind of shared history that he suspects lies between Wriothesley and the one he misses now.
The last fragment of porcelain clatters into the shattered shell with a handle attached, and Pinocchio rises with the soft crik-crik-crik of buried springs. ]
Both of them. [ The sound of his voice implies it's spoken directly to the back of Wriothesley's head, and then when it softens, it seems he has tilted his head down or away. ] What a blow to take at once.
[ Another chatter of buried clockwork and he's stepping away, searching for somewhere to place the broken teacup. Somewhere it won't find the tender part of an unwary hand, where it won't get swept off to shatter worse on accident. ]
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[He chuckles softly as he takes another drag from his cigarette.] It just so happens that they're also gone now.
[Furina was a tough pill in a lot of ways. At the time, it felt ridiculous that an Archon could be reduced to nothing more than a statue. When Neuvillette had revealed to him what had happened, it had brought a certain sorrow instead.
Neuvillette's departure though...
He would be a liar if he didn't say that it has shaken him up. A man who has always stood as Fontaine's pillar and someone whom he would trust with his very life-] Sorry, I don't actually know why I reached out. I- [He turns to completely face the other.] I suppose I just wanted company in the end and you happened to be first on my mind.
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His reapproach is not silent or stealthy; the creak and chatter of mechanical parts buried in his nevertheless living body are more audible for the silence. Fingers, pale in this blue-bathed room, spread gently over Wriothesley's broad back. The mild surprise that he begins to turn to face him as he continues doesn't hold a candle to the full brunt of first on my mind.
Pinocchio doesn't balk easily. This comes close, when he swiftly tosses a glance to one side. ]
Now's not the time to be sweet, [ he admonishes himself more than Wrio, taking his shoulders in each hand, ] There's nothing to apologize for, I'm only relieved that you're safe. Less that you're...
[ This, not half the guess it sounds: ] Sad.
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Right, in all the changes that the resort has brought into his life, there are bits of pieces of home that have slowly been pulled into his life. Furina and Neuvillette were parts of that, but they had come and gone. While Wriothesley might complain some for Sylvain to push him into the mid ranks, having the scenery before him also offered solace.
Still, the mechanical whirring of gears and components were the most familiar to him.
He turns and gently grabs one of Pinocchio's hand and smiles softly.] It is normal. People will get angry or sad or something that isn't happiness. It is impossible for a person to only know bliss, but that is what it is like to live one's life. The hardships, I think, makes living all the more worth it. It makes me want for a better tomorrow.
[He tugs the other close and winks a little. It's a little playful and sweet, but there's something genuine in his expression.] And I get to have your time, so I hope you can humour me for a little while longer.
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But he did, he thinks. And Wriothesley will. But, for now... ]
You don't have to do this. [ The hand he had kissed moves to cradle his cheek, ] I'm not the one hurting.
[ What the puppet asserts may mean putting on this cavalier performance, in case it's for his benefit. When he was tasting the bitter draught called grief, it was Gemini who had told him it was all right to not be all right, words echoed now, months later, by his friend now. Points of cool metal — his prosthetic hand drifting up the back of his neck and pushing through his hair, the pet of his steel digits a more eloquent expression of his affection than the subtle, poignant concern in his steady stare. ] Be sad. I'll stay with you. [ However long it takes.
He tips up his chin, seeking to press a kiss, chaste and sympathetic, to the plane of his brow. ] You take care of everyone, let me take care of you this once. Will you, my friend?
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He can't help but laugh a little though. It's a little disbelieving. It isn't that he didn't believe Pinocchio's words, but that the idea just seems unreal to him.
Still, he is so utterly weak to the gentle touches being offered and he leans into Pinocchio's touch. Eyes fluttered closed and he lets out a shaky exhale.] How can I say no? Alright. I can try. [As of late, he has been trying to let people take care of him. That he doesn't have to keep being a pillar of support every moment.]
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That shuddery exhale seems to Pinocchio like letting go isn't something Wriothesley is used to. The truth of the matter is he's flattered by his trust, a thing he's already broken once before. For a moment he stays like this, his brow warm against his, listening to the sound of his breath, the hush of his hair between his fingers as he strokes slow, soothing circles into his scalp, acting on some whisper of his Ergo.
Thinks. What brings him comfort, besides the submerged view from his window? ] When your heart is heavy, what lightens it? Name it.
If it's ridiculous, I'll only laugh out of earshot, [ he promises, easing his brow away from his with a slightly lopsided smile. ]
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Well, if it is to eventually be something he might lose, then he will appreciate it as much as he can now.
Wriothesley is quiet as he considers Pinocchio's words and-] I don't know. [A cup of tea and his gramophone had always been a good companion. A punching bag or a match to release his frustrations. But no, these aren't things that he feels will help the ache in his chest.
Solitude had been a constant in his life, but he did not dislike it. He welcomed it even. It was a part of his life that he had even encouraged into his days. Now though? This was not solitude. It was not the quiet seclusion of him in his office to the scratch of a record and a drink gone cold at odd hours of the night. It was not the peace of the ticking of clockwork as he settled deep beneath the ocean in a metal fortitude.
He chuckles, the sound soft and pained.] I've not had to deal with loneliness in a very long time. It is not something that so easily solved by a warm drink and sweet music nor will it be abated by the sweat and the ache of muscles. [Oh but there is humour in the situation. The resort being built around sex and how easy the temptation of wanting to fall in someone's bed when you yearn for company.
He knows a siren's song when he sees one though. It would be easy to start losing oneself.] Everything that I think will bring me peace is out of my reach.
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[ Disappointment might color his words but not his expression, ever curious, ever receptive, if the one speaking is the man he's come to trust so implicitly. Pinocchio's blue eyes, so doll-like, fix on him across the negligible space, their blue irises complemented by the aquamarine tableau beyond his room's windows. Here they are, with the puppet's fingers twined through his dark hair and their brows together, and he still feels a distance carving space out between them.
Solitude has been a factor in both of their lives, defining them in different ways. He cannot imagine a "him" without his friend, and the idea he might try to carry on without the support that Pinocchio attempts to offer... makes his clockwork heart quail in a strange way, unfamiliar.
It feels like failure. A bad boy, a poor friend, an insufficient soldier, a blunted tool. His fingertips dig into his scalp a little, clutching him tightly. The sound of Wriothesley's weary chuckle makes his heart ache. ]
How can I be sure, if you don't tell me? [ Even if he told him to pull the moon down from the heavens, he would try. So what, then, can truly be called out of reach? ]
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And so he leans closer to the other, taking whatever Pinocchio will give him. The ticking of clockwork and the slight sting of a tighter grip. Their undivided attention. It is soothing on his heart.]
Do you know how to dance? Actually, to tell you the truth, I never once utilized the meager waltz lessons I had prepared, but I think it would be nice right now. [Wriothesley doesn't know really know what the other could do, but he finds that maybe Pinocchio doesn't really have to. Their company was enough. He can make things up if that will be acceptable to them though.]
I didn't ask you to come because I expected you to do something. I asked for you because your company is invaluable to me.
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The puppet has always been an excellent imitator, readily picking up new motions, springs and clockwork driving the illusion of practiced grace. Learning the right sequence of motions wasn't hard, learning to adapt when someone did something unexpected was harder, particularly when a misstep could land a not insignificant weight of puppet foot on an unsuspecting toe. But once he got the hang of it... he felt like he'd moved closer to being one of those pairs he had admired from the side of the dance floor.
Wonder occupies his freckled face at the question. His chin lifts marginally in a prelude to a nod, arrested by his assertion that he isn't here to do anything — the novelty that one wants a puppet around for any reason but service hasn't worn itself thin — that his presence is enough. Fingers drag, withdrawing from the warmth of his dark hair, though he doesn't relinquish his hold on his hand as he steps back. ]
There's no music, [ is more a statement of the obvious than an objection, while his posture goes about a kind of reset, seamlessly adopting one that seems poised to pull the boxer along with him. ] But we can make our own. [ A brief pause, marked by a chatter of gears, and it occurs to him to ask: ] Do you prefer to lead?
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And, well, he does miss the gramophone in his office.] When that happens, I'll ask for another dance.
[It's surely a promise. Pinocchio will have to at least give him a second dance at some point. He'll hold it to them.] Well, I think I still can hum a few songs I'm familiar with. I can't guarantee it being very high quality though.
[Wriothesley has to let go of Pinocchio's hand, but only so he can shove all his furniture around so they're all against the wall, leaving them a suitable amount of room to dance in.] Can't say I have a preference given that I think all my times dancing was with my very tiny head nurse. [Which is...hardly a suitable dance partner. Not because Sigewinne would be a bad dance partner, but their height differences made it difficult to say the least.]
I'm happy in either role, sunshine.
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I've had a few lessons, [ he confesses. Honesty seems the best policy here, but as he seeks out Wrio's hand with his own, he indicates the role he intends to take, ] All of them had me lead.
[ He's not sure what him being a boy has to do with being the lead. Also, he doesn't care. Leaning more into the more light-hearted tone of what he assumes is a pleasant distraction from the thoughts that weigh on Wrio so heavily, he affects a courtly bow over his hand, adding just as he starts to rise: ] If I tread on you, I promise to personally carry you to Broken Wing.
[ Filing away that mention of a gramophone for later, he closes in, placing the other hand at the small of the boxer's back. He might just have found a reason to spend some of his stipend - and Pinocchio's record-collecting habits rise again. ] Will you sing for me, sweet songbird?
[ A puppet can do names, too. ]
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[A few different songs flit through his mind. Old tracks he played in his office late at night.]
I've never been called that before. You can't be telling anyone I sing. [Wriothesley wouldn't exactly call singing a hobby, but doesn't everyone sometimes sing to themselves?
He hums softly to a song he hasn't heard recently, but one he happily listens to often enough.]
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[ It feels special, to have someone he can confide in, to share in a secret. The sentiment stitches neatly with the way Wrio seamlessly plays along, performing a curtsy almost comically dainty for his handsome, rugged frame.
But what surprises him is the tune he carries, pure and arresting. Music has ever been something that both attracts and foments change in the puppet, ever since the first time he slotted a record in the hotel's player. He can carry a tune, he supposes, but the one time he tried to sing, Gemini had hesitated around what seemed glaringly obvious to the both of them: something is missing. He's grown and changed since, but...
He supposes he was always better at expressing himself behind a piano's ivories and ebonies. Not like Wrio, not like this, where at first he freezes, transfixed by the sound, stunned to hear it until he remembers he is supposed to dance and searches for the beat.
One step, then another, and a third, feeling out the differences between the waltz he's been taught and, possibly, Wrio's own expectations. A pivot in place, only to start again. Feeling out the motions, the way the puzzle that is them fits to the tune that warbles in Wrio's throat. ]
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Right now though, he hums softly, words sometimes slipping from his lips, as they move together. He sways and moves, like water going with the flow, and keeping in step with the smaller man.
The arts have always been vital in the expression of emotions for humans. It reads on the man so viscerally. The aching exhaustion settled into his bones and reads in his more sluggish movements to the sweet melancholy that lingers in his throat. Wriothesley, while a private person, was also equally expressive.] Hah, I think you're a better dancer than me. Not that it's very hard to. I don't dance.