2020-01-03 - Epistolary Trip

Even if she weren't already a couple beers into her evening, Sparrow wouldn't say no to a free shot. Whatever the bartender offers up on Hank's dime, the redhead downs it with a clink of her glass to Rhys' in wordless toast. Coat collected and goodbyes issued, it's not long after that the pair spill out into the chilly night along Spruce, all dark and quiet save for the streetlights and the muffled music on the other side of the Pourhouse's door. She keeps close to Rhys, one of his arms claimed for heat-leeching should he allow it, as she asks, "Where am I taking you?" Nevermind the utter absence of her familiar red Kia with its many bumper stickers or the fact that she's yet to summon a ride from her phone. "Your place or mine?" Only after that more important question is out there does she wonder after logistics. "And are you driving or..?"

Free drinks are the best kind of drinks. Though somehow, not always also the best actual drinks. It is a conundrum. Regardless, Rhys isn't about to turn one down either, nor to skip letting their erstwhile tablemate know the table's going to be deserted if she heads back, and there's a bit of quick chat before he's ducking out with Sparrow and quite happily allowing his arm to be thoroughly heat-leeched. Number one, he has less than no objection to that pleasant proximity, and number two, this handily results in him leeching her heat as well, particularly when his other hand reaches across to idly stroke her forearm. Mutually beneficial, and who could ask more than that?

"Yours," he answers easily, "'cause you're supposed to take me home tonight, and I think when that's my home we lose all the best implications of the phrase. And I walked, 'cause I had every intention of failing any breathalyzer tests I might get asked to take afterward. So. Walk, or should we order ourselves up a chauffeur?"

"Mine," Sparrow concurs, though something about the way she says it with her chin tipped toward his shoulder and those big brown eyes angled his way suggests she's not just referring to their destination. "Not too far to walk," she ventures, though she doesn't sound entirely sold on that, not entirely in the right mindset to go about estimating times and distances. Still, she knows the way and makes sure they're pointed that direction as they set off into the chilly night. "Might even be some pancakes in it for you in the morning," leads to a sidelong look and a tease of, "How d'you feel about day-drinking?" which, in turn, runs into a bright, "Oh! And how about more tonight? Still at might-pass levels? Because I am always down for raiding my brother's fancy wines." Not that her babbling stops there. It's only momentarily interrupted as she turns a more thoughtful look Rhys' direction and asks out of seemingly nowhere, "How do you stimulate a soul?" No, that's not right. With a little scrunch of her nose, she restates, "How do you stimulate a soul?" Squint. "How would you..?" It's a difficult question to phrase.

Rhys grins at the manner of that concurrence, and doesn't seem inclined to argue with any potential interpretations of it at present. "Nowhere in this town's exactly a marathon," he says, letting her direct them even if they could probably both find anything in Gray Harbor blindfolded, blind drunk, or possibly both at once by this point in their lives.

"Pancakes, you say? Will we be day-drinking something beginning with P? Alliteration is all-important in antemeridian imbibery affairs, I aver. If not let's just pretend we forgot what timezone we're in. And as far as tonight, pretty sure I've still got room for fancy stolen wines. We gotta stay in plundering practice."

He gives her arm a squeeze as they walk, looking generally pleased with life in general, in that momentary interruption, more thoughtful at what follows it. "Any particular soul or just a generic one, and what kind of stimulation? 'cause the broad answer that comes to mind first is 'beauty'. Not necessarily nice beauty, but... maybe that's a tautology. I could argue that's what genuine beauty is, things that stimulate someone's soul. Music's the specific tool I'd think of first."

"Perhaps," Sparrow answers of that alliterative alcohol. But then she adds, "Possibly. Potentially. Probably," and a cheeky, "Peut-être," for good measure, bringing her back to the initial reply. "I know just the port to pilfer." Given that it's not the first time she's mentioned thieving that particular aperitif, one might guess she's had her eyes on a specific bottle for a while now and is just waiting for the right excuse. Or, really, any excuse.

She reciprocates the squeeze to her arm with wrapping a bit more snugly about the limb she's claimed, with a dip of her head to his shoulder again, hiding a bit of nose-warming with a kiss atop his coat. "Mine's the soul you need to stimulate," comes on a puff of visible mist when she lifts her head, nose and cheeks growing rosier the longer they're exposed to the cold. "That's your challenge. Whether you face it tonight or not. And I do think I can facilitate if music's the route you wanna take, though." Her eyes flash wide as she looks his way again, curiosity burning bright in those big brown eyes. "Really wanna know what this not necessarily nice beauty is that you find so stimulating." That teensy little headtilt which follows? She might be running through a few possibilities of her own.

"Any port in a storm," Rhys replies brightly, before echoing, "...peut-être?" with a slight head tilt, "Maybe in French?" He does not speak French. But he does know what a raison de être is and context is our friend! "Actually, 'maybe in French' is a weirdly appealing phrase. Like, 'would you ever X?' 'Maybe in French.' Mostly for things where the language is entirely irrelevant. I'm just gonna keep that in my pocket for the day a proper opportunity to whip it out comes up." There is not the slightest emphasis on the potentially-risque phrasing. On the other hand, does there need to be?

"Is your soul feeling unstimulated?" he inquires, looking over as she lifts her head, and sounding as though that's a genuine shame. "I'll need to know more about this lack of stimulation, but I think I'm up to the challenge. What kind of facilitation have you got in mind?"

The part about less-nice beauty doesn't get an instant answer; there's a couple silent steps before he speaks again. "Depends a lot on what kind of stimulation you're looking for. But, for example. There's a kind of beauty in a good fight, a real fight. In it or out of it. It's not necessarily nice, either way. But it can be moving. And in it, especially... you know in your soul you're alive." A small shrug, and less small grin, "Even if you might not be totally sure you're staying that way, I guess." There are probably other examples of things he could come up with; this is one.

"Puis-je..." Sparrow begins before her curiosity is fully formed. Or maybe before she's able to translate her desire into her high school-level understanding of another tongue. "..regarder une fois que vous l'avez sorti?" It all sounds so innocent--as much as French ever allows--when delivered with that wide-eyed expression, brows pitched high, as if she might be offering to take his coat or fetch some wine. Her eyebrows descend back toward a middling position as she assures, potentially unnecessarily, "I'm pretty much always up for X even if it's not in French. Not that I don't think you couldn't find something I wouldn't be down for, but." Her shoulder rubs against his as she shrugs with a little tilt inward. "I'd be willing to bet that most of what you'd actually wanna do in my company is stuff I'd at least be willing to try once. Maybe twice to verify." As is only right and proper for a scientist-in-the-making.

Skipping right past the question about how *un*stimulated her soul might be, she offers, "I've got Spotify," with a little jut of her tongue in regards to facilitation. "Microphone in the basement. A good selection of, uh. Tracks without the drums or vocals." Her nose scrunches as she catches herself getting a bit too far down this tangent. Tying that thread up, she concludes, "If music's what you wanna offer. However deep you wanna go. But, uh." Her smile skews a little bit sheepish, flashed his way just as they turn down another street, heading closer to Oak. "Think maybe we could skip the melee. Tonight, anyway. Keep meaning to get some time in with Joey so I can... I dunno. Figure out how to stop pulling my punches? But." She takes her turn to shrug, leaving that thought unresolved as she draws a deep breath and moves on. "I have this very, very expensive bottle of scotch that came to me with very specific instructions. That it should be enjoyed with those who stimulate my mind, body and soul." The casual way she tells him, "Pretty sure you could meet that criteria," is undermined by the look she not at all surreptitiously turns his way, this odd little rite clearly something of personal significance.

Rhys continues not to speak French, and the sentence isn't reminiscent enough of anything he does speak to get him to a useful interpretation, this time even with context. Instead, he warns, "Careful. If you keep that up I'll have no choice but to do a really awful Gomez Addams impersonation," and shifts his weight to intentionally make his shoulder bump against hers, rather than simply gliding along beside it as it was. "Anyway, that's probably a pretty safe bet. Probably works the other way 'round, too. For one thing, there's a whole lot of stuff I'd be willing to try at least once. Particularly with appealing company." A smaller grin than most, "Maybe twice, to verify." Don't have to be a scientist to appreciate the need for reproducibility! "Sadly, though, I don't have any X. In French or otherwise. So that one'll have to wait."

He seems to consider the music offerings for a moment or two before saying, "Never really tried making music much myself. Unless you count the karaoke, which really, no one should. You've heard it." Tonight, even. He shakes his head woefully, though he can't or maybe doesn't try to pull that off for long. "I think I'd have to put some real work in there to figure out how to stimulate a soul with music of my own," he says, a bit more actively thoughtful.

His weight shifts to press his shoulder to hers, and he teases, "You sure about no fighting? Just a little pointless violence, clear the system? No? Tch. ...nah, in all honesty, if you wanna wrestle with or without whipped cream and jello, I'm down, but getting into actual punching feels like we're just asking to end up trying to blow up credit card companies. And c'mon, all those records are in the cloud anyway these days." There's a small pause, watching her sidelong, as though a question might have followed, but instead: "Interesting challenge. And I do like scotch." The odds the official 'prize' is secondary may be decent, though. The little smile pulls to one side, along with the glance her way. "Doing okay on the other fronts, then?" It's light, a familiar sort of teasing, but there's still the sense of mulling the real question, beneath it: how does he stimulate a soul... specifically, hers?

"Hardly a threat," Sparrow counters of that theoretically impression, adding a playfully pointed, "mon cher," just to encourage this awfulness. Her head dips toward their bumped shoulders, chilly cheek and wind-reddened nose pressed to his coat. "I'll take you up on that," sounds less like invitation and more like warning. Not precisely sincere warning, but warning all the same. A gesture toward the exit, should he want to bail before she starts working through her list of all the things she'd like to try with him.

A surprised, "Oh!" that has her eyes shooting wide for just a second is followed by a loud spill of laughter. She might even be blushing, but it's hard to tell while the cold keeps her skin all rosy on its own. "I don't know why--" The X didn't click into that drug-happy place in her brain? "Ya know." Her grin goes sly as she levels Rhys with a look that promises an interesting offer to follow. "I've got some LSD if you aren't particularly particular about which letters of the alphabet we're exploring. Almost certainly some soul-stimulation to be found in that direction." With a little wobble of her head, she adds, "Though almost certainly better for music listening than music making. Everything gets too drippy, and I can't keep consistent which. Drums." There seems more to that thought, but it flutters off without being voiced as she guides them through another turn, closer still to home. Shouldn't be too much longer.

"Pretty sure I'm sure about the no fighting," doesn't sound sure at all. "I mean. I don't know that I'd know how to wrestle without it... just..." Her head tilts. "Oh. Yeah. Alright. I could be down for that." It's really not difficult to guess at some of the visual consideration playing through her brain now that she's actually giving it some thought. The rather warm smile she turns his way suggests there might be a few already familiar specifics thrown into that mix as she assures, "Yeah," of his progress with mind and body. "You're doing alright."

Whether Rhys is incorrigible might be up for debate, but for better or worse, he's definitely encouragable. "Querida! That's French!" he exclaims, eyes widening, and draws back enough to grasp her arm and start shamelessly kissing up it from elbow to shoulder, which would probably be more fun without the winter layers and all. Might be why he steps outside the realm of reruns and ends it aiming to steal a proper kiss. ...so no bailing, apparently.

Not ideal for walking, granted; settling back into the previous position is better for that, and he laughs when her Interesting Offer arises. "One of the best arrangements for those letters," he muses, giving her a thoughtful sidelong look. Less thoughtful when she gets to proper consideration of the potentials (and histories) of wrestling, or at least not quite the same thoughts; amusement at the gradual arrival at 'oh' blends well with a dose of unconcealed wickedness, and settles into a general sense of satisfaction with the state of things at this particular moment. "Good. I'd hate to be slipping," he replies, "...and I think I just might take you up on that letter exploration. We could get downright epistolary." While making music, listening, something else? Details he's got some time to consider, still.

Sparrow doesn't even come close to maintaining Morticia's grace and composure when those kisses come, spilling into misty giggles as her steps falter, as she stills, smiling downright adoringly when his ascension ends at her lips, so very ready to happily melt against his. Hand lifted to his chest, it seems like she might happily just give in right here, forget the rest of the walk home. Not like they can't warm each other up, right? But one of them has some sense, and she sinks back into step at his side, one arm once more tangling tight with his while the other, for a few steps, crosses his chest as she maintains an awkward-for-walking tilt into him.

By the time she's picking up on his wickedness--in this particular instance, not an entirely new discovery altogether--she's straightened back into something more comfortable. And proud, chin lifted a little. So very ready to meet that challenge. Thank the wintry gods for so deftly concealing the blushing that might belie that confidence beneath an appropriate cold-weather rosiness persistently coloring her cheeks.

Easier to read how very damned pleased she is when Rhys gives the go ahead for their alphabetic exploration, excitement expressed in a tightening of her hands on his bicep. "That's how it goes, isn't it? Two different trips with intermittent correspondence, peculiar letters sent across the room or written in kisses. Touches translated into unintended languages, a misrepresentation of what was meant which seems entirely true from both sides all the same." The rise in her voice there suggests she could go on, but she catches herself, turning a soft smile his way as she admits unnecessarily, "I can't wait to see where we go."

The temptation to just let walking places be something to worry about later is a fairly strong one, frankly, but it's just cold enough to make the point that kissing will probably not be less pleasant somewhere they can exhale without seeing it, and further, that the tendency in some cases for kissing to lead to fewer layers of clothing is going to be a lot less enticing to give in to out here. It's annoying logic, but logic all the same. While she's in that slightly-awkward position, he tilts his head enough to press a kiss to hers before settling into strolling.

Everyone appreciates a good challenge, don't they? Everyone currently present, anyway. So that's handy. Rhys manages to look even more pleased with her reaction to the agreement, on a sliding scale right on up as she elaborates his joke right into a proper sort of analogy; the look he gives her about the time she ends up breaking off bears a definite similarity to the one that met his kiss. He regards her for a silent step before remarking, "You have a ridiculously sexy mind." He returns the smile, and glances up at the sky above them, free hand coming up to cover one of hers where it holds his arm. "I can't wait either. And rumour has it you might be really good at random trips." Okay, so 'road' was specified originally. So what?

Sparrow is keeping that, the way he looks at her in the moment following her excited elaboration, the wonderful words which follow. That perfect moment. All hers. She tucks all the important details safely away, all the way up to the angle of his jaw in that skyward glance, to the way his fingers feel atop hers. "I am," is more soft-spoken than she'd meant, brightness leant to warmth rather than shining on its own. As they round another corner, 7 Oak comes into view, the rainbow-painted porch-posts easily catching the eye. The few lights on inside suggest someone might be home, but that's to be expected at this hour. "Didn't expect this to be our first trip, but. Almost certainly safer. With the roads all icy and stuff. And not having to try to be patient. Gods know that's dangerous enough on its own. Leads to all sorts of mischief." Her wide eyes feign horror well, a whole movie reel of unspecified trouble undoubtedly playing out behind those eyes. "And, I don't know if you know this? But I am definitely not a mischief-maker." Without any sort of segue, she shoves the conversation sharply sideways into, "What do you like on your pizza?"

The smile widens at the quiet confirmation, and Rhys seems perfectly happy to maintain that quietness for at least a few moments. The arrangement of lights at the house is noted when it comes into view, but, well... yes, at this hour, it's not a surprise to think one or more of her roommates might be there ahead of them. He gives a slightly exaggerated nod and "mm" of agreement to the horrors of having to try to be patient, and his gaze slides sidelong to her again when she gets to the matter of mischief, and that beautifully insincere horror. "No, no, of course not. Heavens forfend! I'm sure when mischief rears its head, it never finds you wanting." He does a pretty good line in slightly-too-earnest. What does he like on his pizza? "Mostly my tastebuds. It's hard to ruin a pizza. I mean, I was served canned peaches on one once? Still good. But meat-heavy Everything's a fave. You?"

"And definitely not because I already made my own," Sparrow concurs of trouble leaving her alone. It's said with just as much airy incorruptibility as her agreement of, "I like meat." Which might be more convincingly innocent if it didn't come with a little peek in Rhys' direction with a flick down his form. "But mostly? I like cheese." As if he hadn't already figured that out. "Always crave something gooey and greasy at the end of a long trip, and I'm thinking if we start now, we can have some pizza for breakfast with our come down binge." Yeah, she's planning to hold him here for a half-a-day at least. Let's hope he wasn't looking to catch any sleep.

One hand reluctantly slips from his arm to fish into her pocket as they approach the house, fussing about for keys so she can unlock the door which ought to be rightfully locked up tight at this hour of night in a town with a murder rate like Gray Harbor's. "I'mma grab us some supplies." A plan for once the door's open, the second half slow in its delivery as she pauses before the unlocked door to lean in and claim a kiss, slow and happy, as much promise for later as gratitude for already. She lingers close, nose beside nose, when the kiss breaks, when she asks, "You okay to head up on your own?" just before she opens the door.

"Oh, definitely," Rhys agrees, mock-earnest to a fault again, "It's certainly not any sort of professional courtesy arrangement." The peek gets another sidelong return, and a faint shift of chin and shoulders -- small enough they may well not be conscious, but they seem to invite the looking. "Well, I'm happy to share my meat with you," he replies, picking up her airy innocence, then putting it right back down as he adds, "And my cheese," and punctuates it with a wide grin and a finger-gun, complete with tongue-click and wink. 100% sharp cheddar, baby.

The grin is, of course, the only facet that remains, shifting to something a little less likely to get a sparkle and 'ding' added on in post-production, when he goes on. "Sounds like a plan to me," so if he had any plans for actual sleep, they must be getting rescheduled. He stays right there while she deals with the door, which is convenient for kissing purposes. His free hand comes up to catch the side of her jaw, fingers curling against her neck, and there's no hurry on his end of things to break that off and head indoors, even if the same issues as on the street are not only still in effect but mere feet from being solved.

When the kiss does back, there's a smile, smaller than before. "Yeah," he answers, "If I get lost, I'll just call in Search and Rescue. It'll be fine."

Sparrow might eyeroll for the click-and-wink finger-gun, but it does nothing to diminish the delight in her smile, her admitted appreciation for that cheesiest cheese entirely earnest. It might even inspire her to linger a little longer in the cold than she otherwise might have, but that could just be the way he holds her close, how warm his hand feels against her neck despite the cold. She nods against his forehead, teasingly murmuring, "Enact emergency protocols?" as she slips inside.

He might catch a momentary pause, a peek this way then that to make sure they're unlikely to be waylaid along their respective paths. Upstairs, it sounds like there might be a shower running, and there's muted music coming from the back of the house downstairs, both likely on the other side of doors. Good. Coat hung up among the motley collection already present, she blows a kiss and heads off on her (not exactly) secret mission, leaving Rhys the opportunity to spend some time in her room alone, undistracted.

Not much has changed since his last visit, though her laptop's still in her backpack which is set against the nightstand. The bookmarks in both the Psychedelic Psychotherapy book and the travelogue on the other side have moved farther in, the former no longer paired with a comic book. Instead, it's poetry Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair by Pablo Neruda, translated by W.S. Merwin, and a sketchbook, pencil set atop it. What had been boxes of art supplies before has become shelving, a proper space made for that passion, complete with a folding chair, plain beige-painted metal with cushioned seat and a few smudges of color, and a slightly better-tended folding tray table out of the 70s or 80s in black with gold patterning upon the top. Her canvases still rest against the wall, now beside a folded easel, but only one bears any paint: the crashing blue chaos of waves colliding, what could seem forbidding rendered exciting instead by the bright colors, the ascending arks... the brilliant butterfly-like thing cutting through all that blue.

"Emergency protocols engaged," Rhys murmurs back with an appropriately inappropriate roll of hips, enough to be felt as suitable evidence of the claim as he releases her again.

He slips in behind her, following those glances with quiet interest as he, too, clocks the quality and apparent locale of the other sounds in the house; he moves softly, just short of intentional stealth, as he sheds outer layers and hangs them among the coats as well. It really is easy enough to follow the path he remembers from before, ending in her room without any need for (any further) emergency services, and once there he stops, taking the time to look around.

It's the differences from last time that get the most initial note, followed by the visible canvas. He studies the painting for a few seconds before prowling the room, outer edges inward, glances into closets and bathroom and kitchenette, homing in on the nightstands and the various treasures they bear. It's almost like casing the joint, in the mix of speed and subtlety, the initial focus more on the overall impressions and sense of where a deeper exploration might most likely be least noticed and best rewarded. It's just that the eye being turned to it is hunting knowledge, not profit.

The initial impression, no matter where one looks, is one of neatness. From the made bed to the absence of dirty dishes in the kitchenette to simply having a place for everything: Sparrow keeps an orderly house. More orderly than her frequently frenetic energy might imply and just as orderly as her put-together appearance would suggest.

The kitchenette, nearest to the door, is easiest to inspect, though potentially least personal: salty and sweet snacks, some of which might qualify as healthy, open bags clipped closed; at least one bag of sour gummy edibles; a spattering of silverware, plates, mugs; a six-pack of a berliner weisse and a few bottles of off-brand flavored sparkling water (mandarin-lime) in the fridge with candy in the little freezer tray, favoring peanut butter cups. The top shelf of the fridge sits empty, like something had been there or will be there soon, hinting at the very edges of a ritual.

The nightstands each have one drawer with an open cubby below, the one nearer to the door obscured by her black backpack with its patches and pins, some of which declare her Rebel allegiance, Gryffindor sorting and Chaotic Good alignment. Behind the backpack, there are some toys and figurines, including a Pinky Pie and some weird cat thing spewing a rainbow. The other side hosts a bong and a loosely folded tee shirt with some obscure band referenced on the front. The bedside lamps are, at the moment, decidedly dull and functional by comparison to the way weirder assortment downstairs.

The painting is... chaotic, a contrast to the rest of the room. It seems unfinished, unresolved. The fluttery flowery butterfly thing seems... not only out of place but, upon closer inspection, that something has scratched at its edges, potentially intentionally. Among the other canvases, one bears a pencil outline of a standing figure, potentially masculine, ending at the hips, lightly drawn with little detail.

The bathroom is just as neatly kept, the counter hosting an assortment of her most frequently used beauty products, from the eyeliner and mascara which keep her peepers popping to several palettes of eyeshadow and tubes of lipstick. Little bottles of perfume oil stand all in a row... with an odd tub of beard oil at the end.

One closet is much more filled than the other, the latter clearly utilitarian, housing several towels, spare pillows and... more blankets and quilts than one bedroom--maybe even one house--really needs. Really, it's a mostly empty walk-in linen closet at the moment. The other? That promises endless treasures, from the rows of neatly hung and folded clothes, to the colorful boxes plastered in stars or lollipops, the latter with a cartoonish SUCK IT! on the outward-facing side. Her shoes are neatly organized, with a place for everything, boots and sneakers all lacking laces... with a pegboard nearby hosting a wide assortment of colorful shoelaces and ribbons. Overall, there's a high contrast of brilliance and blackness, a lot of grey in the mix, and a few muted hues mostly kept to sweaters.

Almost certainly too much to explore before a Sparrow returns to her roost, but if he kept to a small target, to one drawer or one box, he might be able to delve a little deeper in the minute or so he has left.

Options! Just how very nosy is Rhys feeling today? Or perhaps the better question is, which direction precisely is that nosiness going to get turned? He spares a second for a cock of the head, parsing the sounds of the house for any that suggest his time is running out faster than he might expect, and taking a fresh baseline if none present themselves.

Beard oil is intriguing, but he's fairly sure the interesting answers on that are more likely to come from her than from it. The boxes in the closet, those definitely pique his interest (particularly the 'suck it' one, somehow), but a mental coinflip has him settling instead on the bed, beside the more-used looking nightstand, the one that feels more actively 'hers'. A glance at the books, and though Psychedelic Psychotherapy might be the most relevant to their plans and the sketchbook is the most truly tempting, he doesn't disturb the latter and its pencil but instead picks up the Neruda. The book's flipped open more or less at random, but only fleetingly glanced at before he gives in to the true curiosity and lightly draws the nightstand's drawer open to peek inside, letting the book rest on his leg.

A portion of his attention remains dedicated to sounds suggesting approach, like a properly sneaky bastard. Or someone who has a sibling. Technically, both.

Beyond this quiet room, the sound of the running shower continues, so soft, obscured as it is by two doors, that it fades into the background, barely perceptible. Whatever Sparrow's doing, it's yet too far off to provide any useful ETA. She could be another five minutes yet or come crashing up the stairs any second now. At least Rhys is likely to have an easier time hearing her approach from over by the bed rather than in the closet. The quick glance at the book, a thin paperback that looks like it's barely been opened, likely newly arrived from Amazon. That quick glimpse reveals Spanish rather than English, a few lines at the top of the page easily caught:

Ebrio de trementina y largos besos,
estival, el velero de las rosas dirijo,
torcido hacia la muerte del delgado dia...

The drawer is a little more chaotic than the rest of the room, though that's almost certainly just the nature of bedside drawers. Off to one side, there's a black over-ear headset with a mic, lined and cushioned and corded with bright neon blue. Tangled with it, there's a charging cord and the powerpack for her laptop, though that cord is neatly wrapped. A translucent orange plastic container holds a small assortment of pens, pencils, markers. A rather large bag of skittles, half-empty and clipped, easily catches the eye, bright as it is, drawing attention away from what might be the more interesting items. Like the little purple vibrating toy tucked up against one side of the drawer, nearest to the bed, toward the front and not at all hidden, the little spiky nubs on the top likely meant for external stimulation. Or the letter addressed simply 'Sparrow' in a neat blocky handwriting, the envelope open, a page or two inside. Or the drawings below it, only the top of which is readily visible. Despite being partially obstructed, it's pretty easy to catch that it's Sparrow's face in profile, that her mouth is open wide around something while something else drips on her face, but he'll need to pull the envelope back if he wants to get a better look at any of the details.

He might even have a few seconds to do so, but Sparrow's booted footfalls can be heard on the stairs. Then crossing the landing. When the door opens, she's carrying a canvas bag weighed down by its contents, a bright smile turned toward Rhys when her eyes readily set upon him. "Sorry that took so long," comes as she locks the door, barring anything from interrupting their excursion. "Kinda wanna make sure we don't have to leave for a few hours if we don't wanna." Which brings her into the kitchenette, adding some bottles of unflavored water to the top shelf, tucking a can of reddi-whip into the door, adding some other snacks from cheese to chocolate, and then setting a pair of red solo cups on top of the mini-fridge. "How far you wanna go tonight?" She might be asking how many tabs he wants to drop.

One might get the impression this kind of thing wasn't entirely foreign to Rhys, if he were inclined to do it where there was a decent chance of being observed. Well, okay, if he did it then, one might get the opposite idea, but you know what I mean. The movements are quick, certain, and careful, attention paid to where things began and where they end up, and at the first hint of boots on the stairs he's taking his last couple glimpses -- the ones catching the drawings get raised brows and a slight tilt of the head for a better look without moving them from their spot, definitely a mental note made of those -- checking the arrangement for obvious shifts, and gently sliding the drawer shut again.

By the time the door opens, he's still sitting there, but holding the book of poetry, which he looks up from when she enters, giving her a smile, one that widens a bit when he catches sight of the can of reddi-whip getting slotted away. The other snacks surely pass muster, but that's the one he clearly notices. "No hurry. I'm stealing your poetry. And entirely in favour of your laying in provisions." Her question gets a laugh, "With you? All the way," before he tilts his head to consider it a moment. "Somewhere between Vancouver and Narnia? How far can we get?"

Sparrow beams brightly at Rhys for that initial answer to her question, like he'd picked precisely the right one, even if it didn't get at what she was really asking. She's to blame, really, the way she phrased her inquiry. Canvas bag abandoned, left to droop beside the mini-fridge, she makes her way over, explaining, "Figure one tab isn't getting us very far from home. Nice floaty experience, but closer to Canada than Fantasia. Two should get us through the wardrobe, and three'll be places we've never dreamed before." No mention of four or more, potentially beyond the realm of responsible face-melting. Crouching in front of her backpack, she flips it over to unzip a hidden pouch that rests at about the small of the back when it's worn. What she pulls out is a little plastic baggie with an incomplete image of Spongebob Squarepants on a small perforated sheet. Nosy McSnoopsalot might catch the flash of what appears to be a few neon-colored zipties in that same pocket before it's zipped closed.

She drops the baggie on the nightstand as she maintains her stoop, opting to take off her boots while she's down here, fingers working doing familiar work while her brown eyes turn upward toward Rhys. "What're you gonna do with my stolen poetry?" seems sincere, like she might not let him run off with it if it's not gonna be put to good use.

Nosy McSnoopsalot probably does catch that flash, 'cause he's definitely watching, and all information is useful information. Just need to work out how it should be used. And while he was interested in Sparrow-related data before, there's a stronger drive to exercise his attention to detail tonight. Stimulating a soul is no casual task, after all.

"Two or three, then," he decides, paying more attention to her than to poetry, blue eyes studying brown when they turn to him. Another moment of consideration, maybe running through whatever plans he had for the next day or so before this one got added in, and he grins suddenly again. "Three. Let's see what kind of new places we can dream," he votes, and shifts position a bit, more loungey. He hasn't taken his shoes off, so not so loungey feet get on the bed, but he's not shedding them just yet.

Instead he looks down to the book, then back to her. "Well, it's poetry. Stolen poetry. Obviously, I'm gonna seduce beautiful women with it. Cabin girls, maybe." He watches for a beat, then adds more speculatively, "...who knows, maybe First Mates. Or would that count as giving it back?" 'cause we can't have that.

Boots off and set neatly aside--she'll unlace them and put everything in its proper place later--Sparrow climbs into bed beside the lounging Rhys with very little concern for his personal space or how he might get his shoes off later. One bent leg tucks behind--or maybe beside--him while the other drapes right over his lap. In part, at least. She's unlikely to snag more than one leg this way, seated sideways beside him with her pelvis pressed to his hip.

And then she leans right into him as she reaches for the baggie, fumbling about blindly as face buries against neck to nibble and kiss and hum thoughtfully at his answer. "Seeing as I haven't read it yet, pretty sure you'll be giving it to me for the first time." She doesn't manage to maintain a straight face at that line, snorting a laugh against his kiss-damp skin before she straightens. Bag opened, she draws the cartoon-imprinted sheet out and folds here and then there, working those perforations so that she can carefully tear a couple of three-tab strips free, leaving maybe six tabs left, just a yellow corner against a blue background, very little of the iconic character left. "Though. If you do use it to woo cabin girls, figure maybe you can do the Spanish--" Beat. "Can you do the Spanish?" She should probably let him answer. "--and I can provide translation. Classic one-two of sexy, sexy romance language and the sexy, sexy intensity of the poems themselves. Probably. Kinda assuming they're like his sonnets. You wanna guess how many men have recited specifically sonnet number eleven at me? Not that I'm complaining. No, nope. Not even a little, but." Well, it is amusing. Somebody's got a type. And that type is 100% Soneto Once.

Handing over one paper strip to Rhys, she pops the other into her mouth to let it get soggy, the faint chemical strangeness earning a little scrunch of her face.

Rhys shifts position enough to wrap an arm around Sparrow when she leans in, head tilting to make a little more room for the attentions. "Mmm," he replies, eyes closed, and grins more slowly this time. "well, I'd be more than happy to give it to you for the first time." No laugh, but nothing even resembling a straight face, nonetheless. Little bit of a purr in the tone, just for good measure. Or because that nibbling was really nice.

When she straightens, he adjusts as well, this time curl-leaning down to tug and push his shoes off while she deals with the tabs. There's a glance or two her way as he does, before he lounges more thoroughly, socked feet brought up to join them on the bed and one hand stroking the leg across his lap. "I can do the Spanish," he confirms confidently -- his understanding is decent, but in the worst case, he really just has to pronounce it anyway, right? "That sounds like a good plan. They're doomed, I'm pretty sure no one could resist that kind of sexy, sexy onslaught from our sexy, sexy crew." The book stays open against their legs, but his attention stays on her face. "Sonnet number eleven, huh? I feel like I've got some homework to do. Somehow, no one's ever recited that to me."

He takes the strip he's given, looking it over briefly, then leaning in to steal a closed-mouthed kiss before popping the paper into his mouth as well.

Sparrow murmurs a quiet rumble of, "Feel like we need some Madonna up in here," at that offer, Like a Virgin undoubtedly playing through her head. Her grin can't really get any wider as she draws back to see to the distribution of their chosen letters. She chirps an all too cheerful, "Doomed," in agreement for the fate of their future crew, as if this were the very best possible outcome. How could it not be?

The pre-drop kiss catches her off-guard, eyes widening before they close. Unnecessarily, really, given the brief duration of the kiss, but she happily lingers in its wake with a dopey smile for a couple seconds all the same. When her eyes slit open, she leans forward with intention, shifting her weight so that she can press right into Rhys and slowly urge him back onto the bed as she murmurs, low and hungry, "I crave your mouth." She, too, steals a kiss, though she goes into it teeth first, grazing his lower lip before providing a proper, albeit fleeting, press of lips. Down her head dips to his throat, a wide swath over his windpipe claimed in a wet drag of teeth, lips, tongue, ending in a faint pinch, a firm kiss. "Your voice." Up, her nose drags behind his ear, up further to bury in, "Your hair," as they sink back against the mattress.

Most of her weight falls to her side, her body pressed to his flank and half overlapping as lips return to his ear as she whispers, "Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day, I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps." Surely, there's more to the poem than that, but she pauses there, distracted by skin, fingers curled against ribs and leg tangling with legs while she kisses behind his ear, down along his jaw, letting that poetically expressed hunger manifest in indulgent affection.

"I dunno about need, but I guess as long as she brings her own snacks we could fit her in..." Between them they've got grins pretty thoroughly covered on their own, though.

Rhys would probably have been more than happy to kiss her a while longer if he didn't want to keep the timing pretty close, and he'd probably be more than happy to kiss her some more afterward, too -- is, in fact, when she presses him back like that, a soft sound greeting the scrape of her teeth. Eyes half-closed, his chin lifts to let her have free access to his throat, and he may well not quite realise she's reciting until she she's whispering beside him.

It's effective, either way. He wraps an arm across her, drawing her more into that half-overlap, and shivering a little at the whisper, the flow of warm breath across his ear. His head tilts again to welcome those kisses, and his fingers find the hem of her shirt and sneak beneath, tracing a little design up along her back. "Absolutely doomed," he murmurs, and if she hasn't gotten entirely distracted from the next stanza, well, he's listening.

"I hunger," Sparrow breathes against the damp trail she's left in her wake. A bright, self-conscious giggle marks a pause in the poetry where memory--and not merely attention span--fails, where she has to search for the words. It is, then, with a giddy nuzzle that she presses back in against his neck and hurriedly finishes, "for your sleek laugh, your hands!" There's no exclamation point there in the poem proper, but she bends to his touch, emphasizing that contact with an arch of her back beneath his fingers, a shift of her weight against him. Her knee plants between his as she draws up a little, just enough to bring her body a bit more directly atop his. "The color of a savage harvest," she purrs as her gaze finds his from above. "Hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails." Eyes widen with devilish delight just before she dips down again, almost losing the words, "I want to eat your skin like a whole almond!" against said skin as she gladly feasts upon his neck, his jaw on her way back to his lips for another kiss...

Which ends too soon as she flips the little sliver of paper in her mouth with her tongue, pushing it back between molars before stealing a whole happy series of shallow kisses. Which she interrupts once to half-laugh, "I don't remember the rest," and then again to wonder, "Did you swallow yet?"

Rhys can't not smile at the giggle, and it remains when she does continue the line, but slightly changed. Something about that line in particular delights him, not that he's not a fan of the others. Or the acting out, particularly where it brings her more atop him, and the feasting begins. Or the (currently) more devilish mirror of his own delight in her eyes, that has the fingers against her arched back shifting at the apex of their idle tracing, angle and pressure adjusting so that it's nails scraping sinuously back down.

"Things I'm pretty sure I've never been asked before for a thousand, Alex," he replies, just short of a laugh, and opens his mouth enough to lift his tongue and show the fairly soggy bit of paper still there. So, 'not yet'. Closing his mouth again, he shifts the less accessible but also less occupied hand to try to draw her back into those little kisses. "Sometime, find me the rest," he murmurs, as though he couldn't just go look it up. Of course he could. But it wouldn't be quite the same...

Sparrow's shoulders rise as a shiver runs opposite the nails descending along her spine, sharply drawn breath spilling in another laugh, short-lived and warm. Heated like her cheeks. She doesn't need all that much encouragement to dive right back into that flurry of kisses, scarcely interrupted by her nodded promise to find the second half of the sonnet. Later. Another time. When her mouth doesn't have better things to do. Like, "Swallow." Which might imply more immediacy than is meant, intended as a lazy indication of her own intention rather than the firm instruction the half-breath between eagerly thiefed affections allows.

He'll have a few more of those little kisses while she chews and swallows herself before she begins to take more, to draw his lip in between her own, to demand a deepening of their liplock with the movement of her mouth against his, a swift slip of her tongue in search of its counterpart. Her weight settles more directly upon Rhys as she happily loses herself in that intimacy, a faint synthetic tang passing between them above the faded notes of earlier drinks, so far away now. No longer using her hand to brace herself, digits slip low in search of shirt hem, meaning to sneak beneath and seek skin, to hold at his side while they make-out.

It's a magnificent way to pass time while waiting for the chemicals to kick in, lost in contact, in lazy lust. Almost makes it difficult to notice when perception starts to shift, when the stray thoughts creep in that translate personal metaphor into sensation, into immediate understanding. How touch and color begin to twine. How time begins to dilate. How, for Sparrow, there seems a crisp and salty quality to the air as if they were nearer the ocean. Though she laughs happily to herself, she doesn't relent, glad to keep her captain pinned and distracted.

Rhys arches a brow at the not-instruction, and for a bare flicker of a moment one might suspect him inclined to not, just out of some kind of defiant principle or something. Can't've been helpful in boot camp, if so. On the other hand... it's just that little flicker, and then his tongue rolls to flip the paper between his teeth, and chew and swallow it in the interstices of the flurry of kisslets.

The further shift atop him has a hand leaving her, just long enough to move the book off his legs and onto the nightstand before his arm wraps around her again, welcoming the weight of her body as much as the more demanding kisses. His leg shifts to make a bit more room for where she's placed her knee, and hooks an ankle over hers while it's there. Fingers slip up beneath her shirt again, pushing the fabric along with them so that the slight coolness of the air meets the skin of her back, right in the wake of warmer touch. Karaoke, good drinks and conversation, an exciting little joint venture, making out; some of his favourite things, one of his favourite people. It's officially been a good night thus far.

There's a lot of focus on the tangible -- on not thinking too much for the moment, letting go of all the myriad other threads for a while -- and so it does somewhat sneak up on him, when the acid starts to hit. Distracted is working extremely well, frankly, and pinned's not doing so badly either, since he lacks even the slightest desire to try to break free. She might suspect the moment it does sink in, as there's a sudden little pause mid-kiss, both of the kiss itself and of his hands. One's drawn a path over her back and side and curled itself against the outer curve of her bra there, and the other's only just slid downward -- and discovered what denim feels like against his fingers right now. Or maybe what feeling it does to the faint pattern developing on the inside of his eyelids. A tiny tilt of his head, and his fingers make some more exploratory movements over the rough material before she can feel him grin against her lips and slip back into the kiss. A little more languid than it was a moment ago, a little more focus on what's changed and changing.

A good night thus far, and they're only just beginning. Deep as they're delving, there's a very good chance that they won't surface until well-after the sun's come up, somewhere nearer to noon. Not that Sparrow's got any thought for the time right now, happily lost as she is in the increasingly extrasensory exploration of his lips, his skin, those little hitches in his attention. Though, "Cap'n?" sounds like a question, a curiosity about his side of their bending perception, she doesn't offer a lot of opportunity for answer, already sinking back into the kiss before that last little sound leaves her lips.

Her rear rises up in answer to the digits drifting over denim without any thought to why, to what he might be experiencing, her own strange translation of his touch enough to encourage continued contact. Fabric only proves fun for so long before fingers are slipping under clothes and over skin, layers shed haphazardly amid giggles and kisses and the clumsy curiosity of hands learning languages which shift quicker than either can keep up. Not that anyone's rushing off to write down the grammar of groping, to document the tactile alphabet lapped up by tongues, trapped and transforming beneath ribs and fingertips, a whole glossary lost under the oddly languid urgency of writing their romance. The story barely brushes past erotica before erupting into proper pornography, all lewd movement and cacophonous colors, excess emotion spilling into nonsense syllables as they collapse half-tangled into their half-shared reality, half body and breath and sweat and sweetness, half collapsing patterns of ebbing ecstasy lapping at the shores of personal metaphors.

Need for rehydration facilitates the introduction of music to allow them travel similar scenery together for a good long while, drifting through the layered landscapes of their shared soundtrack. Sparrow spends a whole lot of time just staring at Rhys, her smile effortless and unashamed every time she's caught, that creeping occasionally compensated in kisses which seldom keep to lips with so much of him, of them to taste, but sometimes there's no apology, no effort made to dissuade him from staring right back. Sometimes, there's simply praise, murmurs of, "You're beautiful," or, "Delicious." Reverently, "Exquisite," as their journey ascends toward something more worshipful.

Rhys mentally sorted out the time issue before saying yes, because you gotta be responsible about your irresponsibility, right? He probably wouldn't be giving it much thought now in any case either, not with everything else there is to occupy his mind and senses. An unintelligible little sound in the renewed kiss might have been something in the category of reply to her question, but there's nothing pressing about getting an answer across. Far more interest in the growing synaesthetic effects, far more interest in her and in all the things he can discover in the sight and sound and feel and taste of her.

Eventually he's staring at her ceiling, watching the post-explosion universe gradually reconstruct itself in complicated near-fractal patterns and pale waves of colour along the subtle contours of the paint; eventually he's staring at her again, at the light of her eyes and the living mass of her hair, dancing with a breeze that doesn't exist in their dimension. At her smile, which pulls a mirror quick and easy every time it appears. The beat of the music flows through everything for him, holding it all together, and compensatory kisses are both welcomed and offered in return. The words murmured back to her are just as complimentary -- and sincere, although once he begins, they also flow down a thesauric vein, "Stunning," giving way to "sublime", "magnificent", "resplendent", "pulchritudinous", each word tumbled and tasted with a quiet sort of glee. "Scrumptious," is offered as well, every syllable savoured as though it is.

It may be what reminds him of the book, at some point when the world begins to stabilize just a fraction more; he draws it back over from the nightstand, and though he's distracted for a bit with the way the movement of the pages looks, he picks a page and scans the poem there. Apparently the letters are deigning to remain in a decryptable state, because he glances from it to watch her a moment again, then reads, "Juegas todos los días con la luz del universo. / Sutil visitadora, llegas en la flor y en el agua..." It might not be quite how he'd read it normally; there are distractions there wouldn't be otherwise, no real scanning ahead, the emphasis perhaps shifted. But the feeling and sound of the language is apparently entrancing, and he goes through the whole thing, all the way to, "Quiero hacer contigo / lo que la primavera hace con los cerezos." A pause, and he scans it again silently before looking up at her and getting caught in that sight again. The book's set aside without looking, and he rolls onto his hands and knees to crawl in closer toward her, settling with one of each to each side of her, and repeats quietly, "I want to do with you / what spring does with the cherry trees," before breaking into a brilliant smile.

Sparrow's glee isn't entirely quiet, each adjective earning delighted giggle which edges nearer to delirium with each iteration. Tears blur the edges of her black make-up, casting soft shadows which only make her eyes seem brighter, the way they widen every time she echoes, "Scrumptious," often without obvious cause, always with obvious elation. She draws out each syllable each time, tasting each of the phonemes with every repetition, the snack no less savored for its binging.

When he plucks up the book, she curls up for storytime, turning onto her side with her hands both tucked beneath her cheek, attention rapt throughout the recitation. Brows hover in a piqued position, curiosity urging them ever so slightly upward when the conclusion is reached, the resolution to the story unknown to her. Was it a happy ending? Did they fall in love? Did the pirate steal off with the princess never to be seen again? She finds answer in his movement, that inquiry dissipating when hands hit the mattress, when she spills back into an inviting sprawl, stretched out and waiting. Where a sober bird might chirp an immediate 'yes' for that line, this particular pilgrim isn't so swift, his smile studied while she wonders just what it is spring does with the cherry trees, head filled with overlapping flowers, blooming in timelapse, spilling petals onto streets she's never walked, opening, erupting, affirming, "Yes." To say Sparrow understands what it is for spring to love the cherry tree, how it feels to be branched and blossomed and stirred to ripe and vibrant life, might be an overstatement, but the water of their shared shower after seems all the sweeter, rivulets spilling into the grooves and contours of her bark.

By the time she's tilting toward the sun shining bright through her windows, who knows how long past dawn, her body has remembered humanity again and, with it, hunger. And another sense heretofore neglected. Whipped cream is breathed in before it's savored, filling their mouths past their lips, into giggled spills licked from skin or left for later. Chips crunch and pop into brighter flavors than they ever express on any day other than this, but none of it is quite enough, hours of exertion with nothing but words and water to sustain them catching up.

She calls for pizza as soon as somewhere's open and pilfers a pair of her brother's pajama pants from the dryer so that they can both descend into communal space clothed and wholesome. There's a quiet which accompanies the come-down, an outward calm which offers little insight into the still-racing brains and continuous visuals still playing out inside. It suits an afternoon of binging movies picked at whim, of cuddling on the couch until exhaustion catches up, until one falls asleep against the other, until the other follows, until one roommate or another comes by and pulls a blanket up over them both while muttering something like 'doesn't she have her own room...'