atowncalledtreffy

In one small mercy, at least Adrian hasn't wrapped around him or anything truly mortifying. Just closed the distance and wound up with his head on Trevor's shoulder and a hand on his arm. Trevor's huff may very well cost him a mouthful of hair, and it's enough to spook Adrian awake and bolt upright a second later.

Trevor yelps when Adrian glomps onto his hair and gives him an elbow to the rib cage.

"Hey!"

That wakes up Lucy, who starts yelping in excitement and won't stop.

Adrian, flustered as he is, chooses to bull on through. "Well, it's morning and there've been no immediately violent reprisals." Is it morning? He doesn't know. Getting up now, anyway. That didn't happen.

Lucy is barking madly, scrambling off the bed to yell at the door like she thinks someone is coming in. Trevor, with the most incredible bed head of all Belmonts, sits up and rubs at his face.

"Were you drooling on me?"

Very busy putting his boots on, sorry. His own hair is a sorry tumble, but it's heavy enough that the chaos can't actually stick up, just tangle wildly. "No." He wishes he had something witty. Nothing comes to mind.

He rubs his face with the back of his hand, amazed as it comes away wet.

"You were. You drooled on me."

One boot laced. Not as tidily as he likes, but he's nearly secured his escape. "Eat shit and die."

"That's my line." He protests, and rolls over on the other side of the bed to go scrub his face. Only Lucy stands in Adrian's way, pawing over to him and grabbing one of his bootlaces in her mouth to pull at it.

"Deal with--Oh, honestly. That is not for little dogs. Hey!" He does his best to neatly and carefully extract the lace. Which of course seems like a cool game of fight me to Lucy, who redoubles her efforts.

Trevor sticks his head out of the door of the bathroom to watch, and gives a rough laugh when he sees what's happening.

"Attagirl, Lucy. Attack."

Adrian finally saves what's left of his bootlace by picking her up entirely, at which point she loses interest in anything but licking him. "Here's your drool machine," he says flatly, knowing he's full of shit and not caring.

"If I were you, I'd watch who I'd call 'drool machine'." He teases, walking over to save Adrian from the excitable puppy.

Adrian is quite close to being defeated, not knowing how to discourage her without being rough, and has had his hair pulled and one cheek thoroughly slobbered in revenge before Trevor's intervention. "You two are a perfect match."

"And you're a cat in human form." He snarks back, and wrestles with his dog, using one hand to hold her and his other to play around her muzzle, letting her snap at his fingers and pulling them away deftly.

"Close enough as makes no matter," Adrian agrees absently, distant enough now from the way he woke up that he's calmed down and is no longer in a frantic rush to put distance between them. "Sleep enough?" Which is his way of asking how Trevor is doing.

He snorts, and ties on the sling so that Lucy can be strapped to his back. She can walk, but Trevor is wildly overprotective and doesn't like the idea of her getting lost or seized by an enemy for the opportunity.

"Yeah. I think I have to wait in this room until Lark comes to get me."

"The leash is that tight, then?" Adrian doesn't like this. He doesn't consider that to be Trevor's problem, and won't insult him by offering it as condolence. He doesn't know what would work better, keep the man from diving headlong into more violent disgrace, because clearly reason won't do it and he's not the person to handle it.

But he's not terribly hard to read, either.

“Mmn.” He grunts in the affirmative, already feeling claustrophobic.

“It’s either this or get locked in. And if I’m going to get locked in I’d rather it be for a better reason than ‘got bored and wanted a stroll’.”

Adrian would probably soften immediately if the remnants of feeling weird weren't still fluttering around his temples. As it is, he chooses practicality, not affection. "Well, I'm not. You want cards, something to read, or... I don't really know how you amuse yourself when you're not prowling about on monster patrol." It's hard to imagine Trevor... still. Not scheming, or tipsy, or snoring, but doing anything sedentary.

He snorts. Monster patrol, really?

God, he's depressed and already climbing the walls. Trevor doesn't do well cooped up in one place; he's already been relegated to one ship, and now he's stuck in an even smaller cabin.

"Bring me some of that wine we had the other night?" He asks. He's got some depression drinking to catch up on. Trevor considers asking for one of the books he's been repairing but decides against it: better to leave it in the library with the paste and leather bindings.

"I'm not sure that constitutes an activity, but arguably a distraction." He briefly considers saying something about it being morning (if that, as he isn't actually sure of the time, and is very late at night possibly better?). "No boot repairs to catch up on, even?" He's teasing, but he's standing. It's the least he can do.

God, what else is there to do for someone as travel-heavy as Trevor? He paces around the apartment, poking into cabinets and things.

"Funny. I don't know, maybe I'll find something in here worth doing."

That part wasn't even a joke. Mending keeps the hands busy. Adrian regards him quietly, but with real concern. He's going to lose his mind. "Good time to take up woodcarving?"

Trevor is coming to the same worrying conclusion as he digs around the cabinets. But he puts up a front and gives a huff of laughter.

"Hah. Fuck you. I still don't see that wine bottle."

He's going to get the wine bottle. Because if he questioned whether that was a good idea, he'd have to question other things. But one parting thought. Because the other option is shutting up. "Fine. I'll have to see if I can get Rags to come show you video games if this goes on any length of time."

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