Hot and Heavy


brian_icon.gif calvin_icon.gif

Scene Title Hot and Heavy
Synopsis A confrontation outside of a bar on New Years Eve spirals out of control when Calvin gets touchy feely and passions ignite.
Date December 31, 2010


It's eight pee emm and something like a few hours until New York rings in the new year. Calvin has not been back to work since Christmas because he hasn't felt like it, which is as good a reason as any when you have personal days to spare and no lab results likely to be returned to you any time soon. Which tends to be what happens when you flood the interns with them just before a major holiday. Even with The Institute's relatively rapid turn-around.

So Cal went out drinking early and has finished drinking early, a conspicuously purple-tinged box of Swisher Sweets knocked open between gloved hands the naked second he hits the cold air. Unmistakable even at a distance, profile all high collar, long black coat tail and ginger mane. His balance seems steady, charcoal scarf with its strip of vibrant orange wound in a haphazard turn about his neck dragging in the wind while he squints across the street and lights up. No date. No friends. No one, in fact, has had the pleasure of Mister Rosen's prolonged company since he dropped Nora and Benji off at Redhook and went winding off on his way to spend the majority of his 25th getting stoned in the privacy of his own apartment. Alone.

With a newspaper.

He doesn't seem to have really slept, is the only odd thing. Lights never went all the way off; movement rarely ceased entirely. It shows in the slope of his shoulders and on his face, too — raccoon eyeliner set dark against shadows worn in like bruises around the glassy cut of his eyes from one street lamp to the next.

Alright. This guy is getting ridiculously boring.

His bi-noc-ulars drop from his face as he gives a pained expression to whatever amused deity is watching above. His head slaps rather forcefully into the wall behind him. It hurts. And so he does it again. And one more time for good measure. Pretty sure that's enough self punishment for one night, Brian lowers the binoculars. Talking to Calvin is like giving a math test to a very well mannered albeit starved and rabid polar bear. You don't get the results you hoped for.

Leaning forward he lets out a quiet yawn. But with all this waint, all this wasting of effort. All this weird shit he's found in the man's apartment. It's turning up nothing. So what can a guy do?

The binoculars and his gun are stuffed into a little black bag that Brian has wedged underneath a dumpster. It should stay there until he gets back. Taking a gun to see Calvin probably isn't a great idea. From what he can piece together the other man is most likely a telekinetic. Also the man is most likely to have strange fetishes. Those are two crucial observations Brian has made thus far.

Abandoning his secret hiding place, Brian stuffs his hands into his black jacket and makes his way down the road. Eyes down, shoulders rolled back. He brings up a fist to cover another yawn as he strolls the sidewalk. Completely 'oblivious' to Calvin.

Whatever Calvin may have to say about Brian, he evidently has the ability to blend effectively going for him. Granted, sleep deprivation has done work on fine-sculpted senses such that he might be hard-pressed to take notice of the aforementioned polar bear pimping down the street in a clown car, so. 'Little cigar,' pushed warm to the side of his mouth, Calvin rolls his gingery head on his shoulders and appreciates light pollution played sallow puce against the otherwise clear night sky, in a comfortably relaxed state of buzzy detachment. He checks his watch and then his iphone. And then his watch again. Smoking. Stretching. Smoking some more.

His car is around here somewhere, though, and when the cold starts to creep in through his boot toes enough to be painful he turns to scuff into an unhurried retreat, phone pressed to his ear after a voicemail about whether or not he plans on going in tomorrow, blah blah blah.

The smoke rolling thin in his wake is sickly sweet, and smells faintly of grape.

Brian slowly glances up to s— Oh what the fuck. Not only is Calvin not noticing him. He's walking away. His lips turn down as he watches the other man walk off. iphone. He could have an iphone if he didn't have to pretend like he was Jason Bourne all the time. Watching the polar bear's back, Winters glances this way then that. Could pretend to trip and yell.. That would give enough reason for Calvin to at least look around.

But from what Brian knows of Calvin he would probably laugh and walk away… Orrr gloat and come back to tell him how stupider Brian was for falling. Glaring at Calvin's back, Brian's feet give the 'what the hell' signal and are soon tripping each other up.

Acting like he missed the step onto the sidewalk, Winters goes over the gutter and face first into the pavement.

"Fuck!" He shouts, resisitng the urge to look over his shoulder in a 'DID YOU SEE ME' fashion. He instead lays there on the sidewalk, groaning and waiting for a Dickhole Samaritan to come by…


Phone drawn distractedly away from his ear, Calvin turns to give face-first-into-pavement-man exactly the kind of looking over that Brian so apty predicted for himself. Lines etched in familiar between his brows, eyes are you fucking retarded amounts of intent on trying to discern how anyone could do a literal faceplant onto the pavement without actively trying.

But all of this is relegated to his expression, jaw slacked slightly open with its. Carefully kempt anchor beard and. Associate bristle.

The start of an, "Alright there…?" sounds genuinely concerned, in a decent-samaritan kind of way way. It's just the … that's a problem, because said … quickly doubles back on the ? and overwrites it with a, "…you little cunt." When recognition sinks in.


It's an imitation of Calvin's accent. It's not very good. On a scale from one to polar bear, it doesn't make the chart. But what he lacks for in accent he makes up for in enthusiasm. Pushing himself up to his knees, he then goes to swing his hand out as if to get Calvin's help. But it's more of a joke than an actual request for assistance. The laughter is immediate before he hauls himself up.

"You drinkin? Wanna get a drink?" Brian's thumb jabs over his shoulder back to the bar. His eyes go down to Calvin's weird smoke sticks. "Get a drink with me and I'll buy you like some cruella deville cigarettes. Those would suit you."

Normally of such lively humor when grinding his heel into the soft skulls of people he already has a leg up on, Calvin looks remarkably stinkface about being accent-teased. Like maybe he doesn't think it's very funny. Or he doesn't find Brian funny.

Hard to know.

Predictably, he doesn't offer a hand down to help. He does turn the rest fo the way around, though, phone tucked away into his peacoat so that both of his gloves are free to curl into fists, should they suddenly feel the need to. "I've already finished drinking, thank you." No remark on the cigarettes; he simply exhales a furl of foul smoke through his sinuses with more force than the last exhale, draconic plumes dissipating in noxious — clouds of grape until the (blessed) wind takes them well away. "Are you following me?"

"You're welcome." Well mannered-polar bear. But, in typical man-style. Peer pressure begins. Men can be all sorts of things, but a man always has to make another man who has said no to a drink. Drink. It's a rule for people with testicles. "Come on, one more drink. One more drink, and you can take all the brakes from all the cars I could ever own." A small smile is flashed to the other man.

He tilts his head at Calvin. "Do you want me to follow you? Sorry. I didn't pick up on that. From our conversation the other night, I had kind of guessed that you didn't like me. Which is weird. Right?" He thumbs over his shoulder again. Bar. One more drink. Barrrrrr.

"…Excuse me?"

Calvin is very good at saying 'excuse me.' Specifically, he's very good at saying it in such a way that the recipient feels like an idiot for whatever implication it is that they were making. In this case, the implication that the offer of taking all the brakes from all the cars Brian could ever own is something that would tempt him. Into saying yes. To one more drink.

Brows hooded and ginger crest of dreads ruffled gently by the same jack frost rake of breeze that threatens to stifle the end of his little cigar the longer he holds it away from his mouth, he stares down Brian for a solid beat or two before he wagers to take a more deliberate drag. Finally, he squints. Suspicious. "Is that supposed to be some sort've euphemism? I'm not gay, you know."

"You could be. After one more drink." This way. His thumb is telling Calvin which way the bar is again in case he forgot or had a hernia. In the midst of the polar stare down, Brian matches his angryface with a cheery smile and youthful optimisim.

"Come on. You can hate me. But just give me a chance to try to make you un-hate me. I'm not that bad of a guy, and I know how to play Don't Stop Believing on the guitar." He makes another gesture to the bar.

"You're right. Get a couple've whiskeys in me," says Calvin, whose turn has listed into a languid advance. Not a lot of distance to close, either — he's right up on Brian in a matter of four or five steps, grape cigarette breath saved to be spent into the younger man's optimistic puppy face. "Big strong man like you. Knows how to play guitar."

One glov-ed finger pokes to trace slow-like across the multiplier's chest. "Maybe I'll be moved to make an exception."

"Don't stop Believing." Brian corrects amiably. His eyes slowly dip down to the hand tracing along his chest. Instinct commands Brian to get the heebijeebies and shake it all about. Because really that's what it's all about. But Brian has been constantly acting, like.. constantly. And though he suspects Calvin probably didn't just realize that Brian is amazingly attractive, well this game of chicken, Brian does not want to lose.

Bringing up his hand it rests on Calvin's.. On his chest. His chin jerking to the bar. "A couple more whiskeys then." He smirks, looking expectantly back at the other man.

Alright, well. Here they are touching each other, then.

Caught somewhat off guard by the fact that Brian has fortitude enough to maintain despite the addition of the rest of Calvin's hand into the equation in a sort of — intimate chest massage, he's forced to coast on autopilot for a few procrastinatory seconds while he considers his options. There's a shift of his bony hips at some point — never quite flush, but obviously unconsciously considering closer contact while he calculates his next move.

It's all eerily smooth, though — the transition from thought to intent to body language flawlessly automated even when he flicks his Swisher Sweet aside to free up his lefty and to murmur, "Maybe we shouldn't wait."

As in, maybe they shouldn't wait for his bandaged left to smooth up around Brian's exposed neck so that he can have leverage enough to push up onto his toes for. A. Kiss. With. Tongues.

Brian doesn't back down. His eyes locked with the other man.

Well.. This looks remarkably like what a girl would do if she was deciding to kiss him. Probably a guy as well, but he's never witnessed that before so he is unfortunately uneducated. However tonight he is going to get enlightened.

Cross that one off the bucket list.

As Calvin moves up on his tippy toes, and place his lefty around his neck, Winters remains frozen in place. The things that rush through his head, are 'oh my god' 'it's happening' and 'what would hugh jackman do'

The answer looks to be kiss back.. Harder. His hands start on Calvin's waist and slowly start to climb up. The tongue is returned, while his hands fix their way inside Calvin's coat. And then Brian goes off.

He does not ejaculate in his pants. That's not what that meant.

Inside Calvin's cute little jacket is a cute little .40. After practicing for months in performing magic tricks for the Lighthouse kids, his fingers are getting used to small intricate movements. And so, just when the kissing gets really intense..

The butt of the gun flies into Calvin's chin in a sort of awkward uppercut as Brian silmultaneously pulls back. His hand still secured on the other man's jacket so he doesn't get too far. The brand new gun in his hand is now held menacingly in front of the other man. And preferring not to give him a whole lot of time to work with, the firearm is propelled at Calvin's head powerfully.

The thoughts flicking like slides rapid fire through the thick of Calvin's skull will, for the time being, have to remain a mystery.

Nothing to see here.

Just two grown men. Having a furious makeout session on the icy sidewalk outside a dive bar.

When Brian pushes in harder, so does he, teeth and tongue and hot breath still stifled strong with the sweet stink of Swisher. He may even be getting more into it once he detects a little something-something going on about the region of his holster so that adrenaline has a say, right hand clawed down to bite at Brian's side without mercy. Not a staying gesture, or even a warning. Just there. Afterall, what's love without a little pain?

Slash head trauma.

Calvin's jaw snaps up and back at the awkward club of the first strike, pale eyes almost too bright with excitement against lurid orange street light. All he has time for before the second blow is a wicked show of his teeth.

Then he goes to sleep.

So here he is.

Standing over an unconscious body with a gun. "After you fight your way through the gag reflex. It was really kind of pleasant." He admits to his now sleeping makeout partner. "But if you'll excuse me for one second." Taking a step to the side, Brian doubles over and opens his mouth ready for vomit. Nothing comes though. He gags a little and feels like he's about to vomit, however he does not.

Regaining his composure, he straightens, brushes off his jacket and walks back to Calvin. Tucking the gun into the back of his pants he crouches. Throwing one of Calvin's arms around his shoulders he goes to heave the man up. "Your place or mine?" He laughs a little.

"Just kidding you don't have a choice." It's Calvin's place for tonight. And Brian starts the long trudge of dragging his 'drunk' friend back home before the Curfew Cops come out in force.

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