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peckenpaugh2020-02-06 07:45 pm
numerologest) wrote in peckenpaugh2020-02-06 07:45 pm
Entry tags:
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Who: Wyatt & Adrian
When: Saturday, 2/1 after Quodpot practice
Where: Quodpot pitch
What: After Wyatt gets in another fight, Adrian has words with him
Warnings: n/a
When: Saturday, 2/1 after Quodpot practice
Where: Quodpot pitch
What: After Wyatt gets in another fight, Adrian has words with him
Warnings: n/a
It hadn’t been Adrian’s intention to overhear Dr. Quirke and Mr. Youngblood talking, though the more he thinks on it, the more he wonders if it had been theirs. Wyatt needs someone he trusts to talk with. Why? Because Dr. Quirke is concerned about his methods of self-soothing after stressful situations. What’s that mean? He got in another fight, outside the Zippy Dip.
No matter how hard Adrian tries to turn his ears off, that sets them to burning. Just days before one of the biggest games of the season and he’s out there literally cruising for a bruising. What if Youngblood had benched him? Or pulled him from the team completely? What if he’d been hurt? Adrian does his best, but it’s hard to manage that lava ball in his stomach that keeps spinning away every time he thinks about it. A talk, they probably meant Eddy or one of Wyatt’s roommates. Someone closer to him. But Adrian just can’t keep his thoughts to himself.
They’ve wrapped up their last practice before Sunday's game and the team is dispersing as it always does. Before he can get away, Adrian catches Wyatt's arm, just long enough to get his attention before quickly letting go. "Hey, man," Adrian smiles, friendly but awkward enough that it's clear something's on his mind. "Help me clean up? I wanna talk to you."
"Sure thing, cap," Wyatt replies, his own smile broad and friendly, not picking up on the awkward vibes that Adrian is putting out. Even if he had, he wouldn't hesitate to agree. Sports is his favorite thing about school, and if Adrian or Val asked him to help hide a body, he'd be there. This is a smaller ask than that, so he's already picking up equipment before he even remembers to ask, "What'd you wanna talk about?"
“Thanks, dude,” Adrian says with a nod, watching a moment as Wyatt scurries to tidy up. After a beat he joins him, gathering up discarded brooms into his arms. “I, uh…”
Anger is a funny thing, it burns so hot until you have to let it out and then the lion doesn’t want to leave its cage. What was it Dr. Quirke had said? Self-soothing after stressful situations. Adrian doesn’t quite understand, though he can make a few guesses. Standing there in silence a few seconds too long, he finally tips his head hard to the side, like he’s trying to shake the thoughts out, expression scrunched. “You and your roommates doing alright after what happened? The other night, I mean.”
Wyatt's face pinches tight, then skews like he smelled something unpleasant. It smooths out after that, but not completely. "I mean, good enough, I reckon," he says. It's evasive, but what does Adrian expect? He can't stand here in the middle of the pitch and admit that he's worried and afraid. If no one else is going to say it, even Patrice, even the others who were kidnapped, then Wyatt certainly won't be the first.
"Mmhmm," Adrian nods, chewing the insides of his cheeks until his lips pucker. Fish-faced, he puzzles over how next to proceed. The changes in Wyatt’s expression aren’t exactly subtle, and they certainly tell a story, but Adrian hesitates to leap right to an angry gotcha. Wyatt's always seemed to him like the sort of guy who bruises easy inside, despite that solid outer layer. Nothing wrong with that, of course, but being mindful of Wyatt's feelings while also wanting him not to punch any more people for no good reason (preferably for the foreseeable future, though he'll settle for the rest of the quodpot season) is proving to be a challenge. Adrian is not a boy built for delicate situations, despite being admittedly delicate himself. Presently, he feels a bit like he's trying to balance a tower of glass vases on his elbows.
Momentarily at a loss, he turns to rack the gathered brooms, tossing them all into place at once, then carefully rolling them into individual slots, all facing the same direction. Stalling. As he works, he eventually goes on, "Ah, I'm a little freaked out, myself. Like, I joke? But...s'a lot." He does a half turn, glancing Wyatt's way with a shrug, seeing the way the other boy is chewing on his lip. "I was just wondering, see, 'cuz I heard about what happened outside the Zippy Dip yesterday..."
And just like that, the shutters slam closed. Wyatt rolls his eyes, all exacerbated attitude, though he still goes about the work of putting away practice quods. He's heard his mom warn him so often and so thoroughly about everything that he has developed a keen talent for ignoring good advice and not considering consequences. "Those assholes always starting shit," he says, by way of excuse. It's not technically untrue, but it's not the full picture, either. He had been looking for trouble himself, and glad to find someone else of like mind. He couldn't find any kidnapping ghosts to fight, so their local rivals had done just fine.
Adrian feels a bit like he’s just hit a brick wall, and it’s hard fighting the urge to meet an obstacle with a fireball. His lips press flat, a long line that bends into a frown. “Did it make you feel any better?” he asks, an honest question, but his anger heats the words to a simmer. He huffs, a heavy sigh through his nose, frustrated with himself as much as the situation. Skin buzzing, he sets to gathering up discarded helmets, watching Wyatt for a response but needing to move to keep his nerves from burning.
"Yup," Wyatt says. A simple answer from a simple boy. And, like before, it's sort of true. In the moment, it had felt good to release that trapped energy, a pressure valve opening to keep him from exploding. It had also been deeply satisfying, taking some kind of decisive action when no other options seemed open to him. And besides that, it was fun to punch one of the lamestrommers. He takes the lid off the plastic water cooler, tipping it over so that the ice and any remaining water can drain out into the grass.
“Well,” Adrian replies before he’s ready, the word swelling up like a stormy ocean wave. He looks ridiculous, standing there angry with his arms full of stupid-looking leather hats. He sounds even sillier when he speaks, trying to keep that drawl of his measured and even, not angry or aggressive. “In the future, if you’re itchin’ for a fight, why don’t you come to me, first? Or Eddy. Just—someone who’s not gonna let you do something that might get you benched from the damn team, Wyatt.”
"Bahh," Wyatt says, rolling his eyes as he sets the empty cooler down on the bench with more force than necessary, causing a hollow thump that partially masks the way Adrian snorts in frustrated reply. "Youngblood's not gonna bench me over something like that." As a player, Wyatt is typically amenable and affable, enthusiastic about the game, 'just happy to be here, coach.' But Adrian is angry, and it's about something that Wyatt feels has no relevance to the game — something personal, a critique of his behavior, not his athletic skill. Back home, Wyatt learned that when someone bares their teeth, you better not show your belly, or you'll lose something that's hard to regain. "He only even got involved cause Quirke was there, otherwise he'd'a put money on the fight and gave me pointers after." Maybe that's an exaggeration, but Wyatt isn't about to give ground.
“Youngblood might not wanna, but someone who does is gonna notice you getting into fights,” Adrian throws an arm out and drops a few of the helmets in the process. “This ain’t your first tussle this season.” He pauses, looks down at the fallen gear, then back up at Wyatt, brows knit up. “I don’t wanna see you pulled from the team or worse ‘cuz you’re out there giving people the business. You’re too good a player to lose, and too good a guy to get mixed up in juvie shit.”
That makes Wyatt's face pinch up, some amalgamation of sour emotions, too caught between soft and hard to coalesce into anything identifiable. "It ain't all that serious, it's just a scrap or two," Wyatt protests, but there's an underlying whine, not quite certain. He has fought, drank, smoked, shoplifted, trespassed, and all that other juvie shit. Back home, it's just what you did, and he never thought much of it. The typical punishments for stuff like that — detentions, point loss, scolding — he doesn't mind. Getting pulled from sports, though, would be intolerable. At that point, he'd probably just drop out, though Wyatt knows well enough from past conversations with Eddy and his moms not to voice that thought unless he wants an earful. "Anything else, cap?" Wyatt asks, trying to tidy up his expression and sweep all those feelings under the rug.
“I’m not—” Adrian starts, but the load of equipment in his arms gets in the way, so he sets it all down on a bench to more easily move his hands as he talks. Where Wyatt’s expression curdles and then smooths, Adrian starts at a frown that only deepens. “I’m not threatening your spot on the team. ‘M just…”
He sighs and rakes a hand through the mess of his hair, unsure of what to say, what to do. Honesty doesn’t seem like the best policy here, but if Dr. Quirke said talking’s what Wyatt needs to do, then he supposes that’s what he’ll try, right or wrong. “I’m angry that you keep looking for fights when the team relies on you, and worried about what could happen if you punch the wrong kid.” Though his jaw is clenched, the anger in Adrian’s expression is undercut by the softness of his eyes, the upward wrinkle of his brow. Not fury, but apprehension and a touch of embarrassment. With a purposeful breath, Adrian slows himself down. “The next time you get the itch to punch some asshole in the face, could you please try...telling someone first? Doesn’t have to be me. Could be any one of your friends, or Eddy. Hell, everyone on the team has your back.”
Talking is harder than punching. The worst thing that can happen in a fight is you lose. Wyatt knows how to take a hit and get back up. Explaining what you feel and why you feel it has a lot higher stakes. Wyatt has a lot of feelings, but not a lot of experience sharing them, because being openly soft has always gotten him more trouble than it was worth. After chewing on the inside of his lip for a while, he finally says, "Aight." He's not quite meeting Adrian's eyes, more like his cheekbones, when he adds, "Sorry I made you mad."
“It’s cool, man,” Adrian replies, no longer the fireball struggling to keep himself from popping off, though his skin still feels like it’s crackling with excess nervous energy. He spares a few seconds watching Wyatt, studying that expression and hoping he hasn’t made things worse, then turns to fuss with the equipment some more, feeling like he’ll short circuit if he doesn’t move. “Thanks for helping me pick up. And for hearing me out.”
Arms full again, he pauses, considering his tongue, then glances back at Wyatt. “Invitation still stands. You ever just need to vent? I’ll listen. No questions asked.”
For some reason, that offer makes Wyatt's sinuses start to sting, so he knows he needs to escape. "Okay," he replies with a stiff nod. He busies himself putting away equipment, more precise and careful than he usually is, killing time so it's not apparent that he's trying to make a get away. "Uh," now he's the one glancing over his shoulder, "Thanks. By the way."
“Anytime, Wyatt,” Adrian says, offering one of his silly, apple-cheeked sunshine smiles when he briefly catches Wyatt’s gaze. He offers a shrug, letting the smile go crooked. “Hey, you never know, maybe if you talk it through, we’ll decide whatever’s bugging you needs its shit kicked in either way.”
No matter how hard Adrian tries to turn his ears off, that sets them to burning. Just days before one of the biggest games of the season and he’s out there literally cruising for a bruising. What if Youngblood had benched him? Or pulled him from the team completely? What if he’d been hurt? Adrian does his best, but it’s hard to manage that lava ball in his stomach that keeps spinning away every time he thinks about it. A talk, they probably meant Eddy or one of Wyatt’s roommates. Someone closer to him. But Adrian just can’t keep his thoughts to himself.
They’ve wrapped up their last practice before Sunday's game and the team is dispersing as it always does. Before he can get away, Adrian catches Wyatt's arm, just long enough to get his attention before quickly letting go. "Hey, man," Adrian smiles, friendly but awkward enough that it's clear something's on his mind. "Help me clean up? I wanna talk to you."
"Sure thing, cap," Wyatt replies, his own smile broad and friendly, not picking up on the awkward vibes that Adrian is putting out. Even if he had, he wouldn't hesitate to agree. Sports is his favorite thing about school, and if Adrian or Val asked him to help hide a body, he'd be there. This is a smaller ask than that, so he's already picking up equipment before he even remembers to ask, "What'd you wanna talk about?"
“Thanks, dude,” Adrian says with a nod, watching a moment as Wyatt scurries to tidy up. After a beat he joins him, gathering up discarded brooms into his arms. “I, uh…”
Anger is a funny thing, it burns so hot until you have to let it out and then the lion doesn’t want to leave its cage. What was it Dr. Quirke had said? Self-soothing after stressful situations. Adrian doesn’t quite understand, though he can make a few guesses. Standing there in silence a few seconds too long, he finally tips his head hard to the side, like he’s trying to shake the thoughts out, expression scrunched. “You and your roommates doing alright after what happened? The other night, I mean.”
Wyatt's face pinches tight, then skews like he smelled something unpleasant. It smooths out after that, but not completely. "I mean, good enough, I reckon," he says. It's evasive, but what does Adrian expect? He can't stand here in the middle of the pitch and admit that he's worried and afraid. If no one else is going to say it, even Patrice, even the others who were kidnapped, then Wyatt certainly won't be the first.
"Mmhmm," Adrian nods, chewing the insides of his cheeks until his lips pucker. Fish-faced, he puzzles over how next to proceed. The changes in Wyatt’s expression aren’t exactly subtle, and they certainly tell a story, but Adrian hesitates to leap right to an angry gotcha. Wyatt's always seemed to him like the sort of guy who bruises easy inside, despite that solid outer layer. Nothing wrong with that, of course, but being mindful of Wyatt's feelings while also wanting him not to punch any more people for no good reason (preferably for the foreseeable future, though he'll settle for the rest of the quodpot season) is proving to be a challenge. Adrian is not a boy built for delicate situations, despite being admittedly delicate himself. Presently, he feels a bit like he's trying to balance a tower of glass vases on his elbows.
Momentarily at a loss, he turns to rack the gathered brooms, tossing them all into place at once, then carefully rolling them into individual slots, all facing the same direction. Stalling. As he works, he eventually goes on, "Ah, I'm a little freaked out, myself. Like, I joke? But...s'a lot." He does a half turn, glancing Wyatt's way with a shrug, seeing the way the other boy is chewing on his lip. "I was just wondering, see, 'cuz I heard about what happened outside the Zippy Dip yesterday..."
And just like that, the shutters slam closed. Wyatt rolls his eyes, all exacerbated attitude, though he still goes about the work of putting away practice quods. He's heard his mom warn him so often and so thoroughly about everything that he has developed a keen talent for ignoring good advice and not considering consequences. "Those assholes always starting shit," he says, by way of excuse. It's not technically untrue, but it's not the full picture, either. He had been looking for trouble himself, and glad to find someone else of like mind. He couldn't find any kidnapping ghosts to fight, so their local rivals had done just fine.
Adrian feels a bit like he’s just hit a brick wall, and it’s hard fighting the urge to meet an obstacle with a fireball. His lips press flat, a long line that bends into a frown. “Did it make you feel any better?” he asks, an honest question, but his anger heats the words to a simmer. He huffs, a heavy sigh through his nose, frustrated with himself as much as the situation. Skin buzzing, he sets to gathering up discarded helmets, watching Wyatt for a response but needing to move to keep his nerves from burning.
"Yup," Wyatt says. A simple answer from a simple boy. And, like before, it's sort of true. In the moment, it had felt good to release that trapped energy, a pressure valve opening to keep him from exploding. It had also been deeply satisfying, taking some kind of decisive action when no other options seemed open to him. And besides that, it was fun to punch one of the lamestrommers. He takes the lid off the plastic water cooler, tipping it over so that the ice and any remaining water can drain out into the grass.
“Well,” Adrian replies before he’s ready, the word swelling up like a stormy ocean wave. He looks ridiculous, standing there angry with his arms full of stupid-looking leather hats. He sounds even sillier when he speaks, trying to keep that drawl of his measured and even, not angry or aggressive. “In the future, if you’re itchin’ for a fight, why don’t you come to me, first? Or Eddy. Just—someone who’s not gonna let you do something that might get you benched from the damn team, Wyatt.”
"Bahh," Wyatt says, rolling his eyes as he sets the empty cooler down on the bench with more force than necessary, causing a hollow thump that partially masks the way Adrian snorts in frustrated reply. "Youngblood's not gonna bench me over something like that." As a player, Wyatt is typically amenable and affable, enthusiastic about the game, 'just happy to be here, coach.' But Adrian is angry, and it's about something that Wyatt feels has no relevance to the game — something personal, a critique of his behavior, not his athletic skill. Back home, Wyatt learned that when someone bares their teeth, you better not show your belly, or you'll lose something that's hard to regain. "He only even got involved cause Quirke was there, otherwise he'd'a put money on the fight and gave me pointers after." Maybe that's an exaggeration, but Wyatt isn't about to give ground.
“Youngblood might not wanna, but someone who does is gonna notice you getting into fights,” Adrian throws an arm out and drops a few of the helmets in the process. “This ain’t your first tussle this season.” He pauses, looks down at the fallen gear, then back up at Wyatt, brows knit up. “I don’t wanna see you pulled from the team or worse ‘cuz you’re out there giving people the business. You’re too good a player to lose, and too good a guy to get mixed up in juvie shit.”
That makes Wyatt's face pinch up, some amalgamation of sour emotions, too caught between soft and hard to coalesce into anything identifiable. "It ain't all that serious, it's just a scrap or two," Wyatt protests, but there's an underlying whine, not quite certain. He has fought, drank, smoked, shoplifted, trespassed, and all that other juvie shit. Back home, it's just what you did, and he never thought much of it. The typical punishments for stuff like that — detentions, point loss, scolding — he doesn't mind. Getting pulled from sports, though, would be intolerable. At that point, he'd probably just drop out, though Wyatt knows well enough from past conversations with Eddy and his moms not to voice that thought unless he wants an earful. "Anything else, cap?" Wyatt asks, trying to tidy up his expression and sweep all those feelings under the rug.
“I’m not—” Adrian starts, but the load of equipment in his arms gets in the way, so he sets it all down on a bench to more easily move his hands as he talks. Where Wyatt’s expression curdles and then smooths, Adrian starts at a frown that only deepens. “I’m not threatening your spot on the team. ‘M just…”
He sighs and rakes a hand through the mess of his hair, unsure of what to say, what to do. Honesty doesn’t seem like the best policy here, but if Dr. Quirke said talking’s what Wyatt needs to do, then he supposes that’s what he’ll try, right or wrong. “I’m angry that you keep looking for fights when the team relies on you, and worried about what could happen if you punch the wrong kid.” Though his jaw is clenched, the anger in Adrian’s expression is undercut by the softness of his eyes, the upward wrinkle of his brow. Not fury, but apprehension and a touch of embarrassment. With a purposeful breath, Adrian slows himself down. “The next time you get the itch to punch some asshole in the face, could you please try...telling someone first? Doesn’t have to be me. Could be any one of your friends, or Eddy. Hell, everyone on the team has your back.”
Talking is harder than punching. The worst thing that can happen in a fight is you lose. Wyatt knows how to take a hit and get back up. Explaining what you feel and why you feel it has a lot higher stakes. Wyatt has a lot of feelings, but not a lot of experience sharing them, because being openly soft has always gotten him more trouble than it was worth. After chewing on the inside of his lip for a while, he finally says, "Aight." He's not quite meeting Adrian's eyes, more like his cheekbones, when he adds, "Sorry I made you mad."
“It’s cool, man,” Adrian replies, no longer the fireball struggling to keep himself from popping off, though his skin still feels like it’s crackling with excess nervous energy. He spares a few seconds watching Wyatt, studying that expression and hoping he hasn’t made things worse, then turns to fuss with the equipment some more, feeling like he’ll short circuit if he doesn’t move. “Thanks for helping me pick up. And for hearing me out.”
Arms full again, he pauses, considering his tongue, then glances back at Wyatt. “Invitation still stands. You ever just need to vent? I’ll listen. No questions asked.”
For some reason, that offer makes Wyatt's sinuses start to sting, so he knows he needs to escape. "Okay," he replies with a stiff nod. He busies himself putting away equipment, more precise and careful than he usually is, killing time so it's not apparent that he's trying to make a get away. "Uh," now he's the one glancing over his shoulder, "Thanks. By the way."
“Anytime, Wyatt,” Adrian says, offering one of his silly, apple-cheeked sunshine smiles when he briefly catches Wyatt’s gaze. He offers a shrug, letting the smile go crooked. “Hey, you never know, maybe if you talk it through, we’ll decide whatever’s bugging you needs its shit kicked in either way.”