The wood-panel floor of the treehouse is carefully nestled between the twin trunks of a tree, about ten feet off the ground. A panel in the center of the floor opens to allow a rope to drop down and give access to those welcome.
The house itself is fair-sized and sturdily built, mainly of pine panels. One wall is largely open, covered in metal wire mosquito-screen with two large, thick blankets nailed and tacked as drapes and insulation for the cooler times. This makeshift window faces west, toward the lake, and a section has been carefully cut and taped up to allow access to a wooden windowbox attached outside.
Nearly half the floor -- right up to the trapdoor -- is taken up by the bed, a mattress filled with straw, topped with a thin but soft featherbed, all capped by a large nest of blankets, quilts, and pillows. The other side of the room appears to be mainly the kitchen, such as it is -- a small 'pantry' box of food, a few pans and dishes, and a clay pot redolent of woodsmoke and coal. In the corner away from the window on that side is a very simple wooden box with a lid, and atop that is a cobalt blue wine bottle acting as a vase for random wild blooms. Three rows of shelves line the wall above the cooking area, the vast majority of the space on them covered with carefully arranged shiny baubles of various kinds.
Did someone call for 'tall, dark, and handsome'? Well, dark's fairly well covered, at least. Jet-black hair's pulled into a long, loose tail at the nape of his neck, a few stray strands about the face occasionally drifting into his almost equally dark eyes, the irises of which are a brown deep enough that one needs to look closely to find the pupil. Nut-brown skin that sets off the white of his teeth and eyes -- it could just barely be mistaken for a very deep tan, if one really tried. Tall is a miss; he's still several inches off six feet, and he probably won't ever get there. Handsome... well, not a classic beauty, to be sure, but well-proportioned, with a stunning, frequent grin and deeply expressive features. Slim, but in perfectly good shape.
He's clad in... well, black leather pants. Somewhat faded, well broken in, but nicely cut and really =quite= nicely fitted. A simple cream shirt hangs untucked above them, long sleeved and fastened with a row of small, black stone buttons. Over that, he wears a decidedly well-worn old black trenchcoat, almost too big for him -- the cuffs hang down half-over his hands, when he lets them, and the hem hangs perilously close to his heels. Scuffed black leather boots with worn soles adorn his feet; there's a seemingly random collection of bracelets, all on one wrist, and several piercings along the upper section of each ear -- little silver hoops. His right ear also bears a rather delicate silver earcuff.
He's a big guy -- that's the first impression this man gives. Standing at an even six feet, his build is certainly sturdy, with broad shoulders and beefy arms. There isn't a scrap of fat on him either, and the calloused hands look like they've seen their share of hard work. The second impression he gives is one of youth. His clean-shaven face has a boyish cast, slightly round but with a strong jaw and squarish chin. It's a strange mix of lingering adolescence and budding maturity. His eyes are pale blue, clear and bright, expressive in a way that hints at soulfulness, though he often looks somewhat preoccupied. His tousled blond hair his drawn back in a short tail at the base of his neck, sun-bleached in shades that could only come from nature: the color of honey and wheat sheaves streaked with veins of gold.
His clothing isn't fancy, but he keeps it in good repair. The black breeches he wears are tight enough to show off the musculature of his legs though loose enough to remain modest, tucked in to well-worn boots of black leather. The linen shirt he wears is clean but dingy with age, laced up neatly to his throat. Over this he wears a long surcoat of aged, crushed velvet so dense it may have well been intended for upholstery rather than clothing. The deep hunter's green hue is shot through with threads of dark brown in a pattern reminiscent of falling leaves. Resting neatly upon his chest, where the surcoat and linen overlap, is a simple carven cross of polished myrtle wood, depending from Martin's neck by a braided leather thong.
He is a youth verging upon manhood, his muscular frame gleaming in the sun. A shining ebony mane trails in a long braided queue down the smooth line of his spine and a lock of it drops into one dark eye. His skin is as flawless as the bronze it resembles. He wears barely anything today, a very tiny black swimsuit covers the most pertinent bits of him, and leaves very little to the imagination. At his wrists are tight black wristbands or bracelets.
It's morning, and the treehouse isn't exactly hopping, but there is a certain air of comfort in the scattering of half-scrawled upon papers, sheaves of manuscript, and a quill moving busily over a fresh sheet of paper. Martin lays on his stomach, wearing a pair of black threadbare trousers cut off around mid-thigh. His spectacles are perched on his nose, and his fingertips stained with ink as he scribbles intently. He's been at it since dawn.
Serendipity's trousers are similarly black and lonely, though leather doesn't exactly go threadbare. He's sitting with his back propped against the wall and his feet propped up on the small of Martin's back, ankles crossed, and he's humming to himself absently while he reads a fair-sized book from the library. It's very calm and domestic in there.
There is the distant sound of footsteps crunching rocks on the road, then down the path, and Rex jogs into the treehouse/lake clearing, his torso gleaming in the early morning light, a pair of old, black spandex-type shorts and some sneakers the only things between him and the morning air.
Martin comments quietly, "Someone's coming." He writes to the end of a line, then pauses to skim over what he's written with a critical eye. "I'm not looking forward to Leviticus," he admits with some chagrin. Turning his head, he glances over his shoulder to offer Ren a smile. He doesn't seem to mind being furniture in the slightest. "What'cha got?"
"That's the one I said's prolly a joke, right?" Ren inquires, stretching up to get a look out the screened wall, its blanket "curtains" open at the moment to let in the breeze. "...'s Rex," he informs the blond, before calling out a considerable number of decibels higher, "Hey, Rex!" and waving a hand. "'s called "Do-It-Yourself," 's stuff for the house. Lotsa diagrams. 'course, it keeps talkin' 'bout hardware stores, too," he finishes answering, reverting to the previous volume.
Rex grins and alters his direction to bring him to the base of the tree, where he seizes hold of the rope and hauls himself all the way up, hand over hand with no assistance from his feet. "Heya!" he says cheerfully, hanging from the rope for a few moments before lowering himself to the floor.
Martin perks up as he hears who it is, and he quickly gathers up his papers to tidy up the treehouse a bit. "It wasn't a joke," Martin replies ruefully. "I know it's scary, but people actually believed this stuff." As Rex scales the rope, he has gotten his papers into a pile somewhere out of the way, and he sits up, offering Rex an amiable smile. "Hello."
"People actually believed th' Children'd steal 'em away if they didn't leave out pie for me, I mean mean us, doesn't mean THAT wasn't a joke," Ren retorts, but makes a face at the notion. It dissolves into a grin when Rex pokes his head through. "Mornin', sexy. Make yourself comfy. You know Martin yet? Martin, this's Rex."
"I think I've managed to miss makin' Martin's acquaintance," Rex says, letting his drawl thicken more than usual. He leans toward the blond and extends his hand. "Niceta meetcha."
Martin tells Ren dryly, "Everyone knows pagans have a better sense of humor historically than the people of the Book." His attention turns to Rex again, and he blinks a little, looking both bemused and dopishly fascinated. "It's a pleasure" he says awkwardly as he clasps Rex's hand firmly. "I've heard so much about you."
Serendipity watches the meeting with what looks like approval, and pats a spot next to him on the mattress, offering it to their visitor. "Neither of you's heard all th' good parts," he opines cheerfully, setting his book aside.
"Y'oughtn't believe a word of it if you've heard it from him," Rex says, jerking a thumb toward Ren. "Unless, of course, he's talkin' about my... physical traits and abilities. Then y'c'n believe him." The Oroszlan Kin flops down next to the Coyote Kin.
Martin watches Rex, tracking him with an unwitting stare. The reading glasses perched on his nose give him an intellectual look that doesn't mesh well at all with the tanned beefcake surfer-blond thing he's got going on. "May I ask where you're from?" he asks mildly.
Serendipity bats his lashes at his fellow kin. "Why, are you implyin' I might exaggerate, hyperbolize, or otherwise play fast an' loose with th' truth?" he asks, pressing a hand to his chest, so very wounded. The fact that he grins again at that point really doesn't help the whole 'terribly wronged' pose. He catches Martin's foot between both of his, then releases it and catches it again as if it'd been trying to escape.
"Mississippi," Rex replies, leaning back on his elbows. "How 'bout you?" He gazes lazily upon the Coyote. "Fast n' loose, yes indeed, I think so, Mister You /Wound/ Me."
Martin blinks a bit, and his attention darts to the capture of his foot. Like being snapped out of a trance, he suddenly grins and sidles over to half sprawl near Ren, taking off his reading glasses and setting them aside. "Just east of the Rocky Mountains," he replies. "I've been down the Mississippi plenty of times, and I never get tired of hearing the accent." He sighs softly, then shakes his head as he says, "Believe it or not, our Ren has been a paragon of discretion."
"Only if you ask real nice," Ren shoots back to Rex, still grinning, and reaches out to idly toy with a strand of Martin's hair, now that it's close enough. "Anyway, I admit t' bein' fast an' loose, but I don't stretch th' truth =that= far. ....'less it's funny." Glancing over to the blond, he offers, "I c'n be less discreet if you want..."
Rex looks surprised, and presses his fingertips to his breastbone dramatically. "Our Ren? Discreet? Say it ain't so!" He peers out through the window. "Will the sky fall? Will the mountain get up and walk away?" He leans over and bites Ren's knee. "Just say that you only... /cook/ with me," the lion-kin pleads with a grin.
Martin's cheeks color a touch, but he laughs. "I wouldn't want to intrude upon the two of you." He stretches out on his back, resting his head against Ren's unbitten knee with a longing sigh. "I remember the pies from Beltane. They were so good."
Serendipity squeaks in surprise and then laughs at the bite, catching Rex's braid in his hand and using it to pull him in and steal a quick kiss. "Y'know what they say, if y'can't stand the heat, get outta the kitchen," he teases as he releases the hair. "Y'know, speakin' of, someday we oughta try that pudding recipe for th' unifoals again..." He glances down to Martin, whose hair he's still playing with. "The little ones like pudding. We tried t' entice 'em with some, once, but they didn't show up."
Rex beams at Martin, even though the beaming is interrupted by Ren's mouth briefly. "You know how to brighten a guy's ego there. Always compliment the cook." Then he pauses, blinking, says, "Well, ain't I stupid then?" in a soft voice, and starts getting to his feet. "I need t'go. Miss Anita's breakfast oughta be ready for her when she wakes up, 'cause she's gotta take this new medicine on food."
Martin nestles his head comfortably in Ren's lap. As he gazes up at Rex, his expression grows somewhat concerned. "I wasn't aware she was ill," he admits awkwardly. Then, "If you need help getting any medicines, I'm down in Millinockett all the time. I'll gladly bring up what I can."
Serendipity looks mildly disappointed. "Aw. Lucky her, though. You oughta stop by more often," he invites, gesturing vaguely to the room with his free hand. "Though I think the new house's gonna be move-in-able pretty soon. Oughta come see it if y'get bored."
"Thanks!" Rex says to Martin's offer with all sincerity. "She's been sick for a while now -- her heart's gone bad, Doctor Sean says. So it's just, y'know," his eyes travel away to the lake, "a matter of time, he says. She says she's had a good, long life, though, so that's good, right?" Big brown eyes wander back to the pair at his feet. "I'll be glad to swing by more often... I ain't done much but fix Ol' Man Collins house an' cook for Miss Anita for weeks."
Martin sits up a bit. "Doctor Sean?" He glances to Ren, but whatever comment he bites back goes unspoken. Instead, he tells Rex earnestly, "I'll pray for her. If there's anything else I can do, please don't hesitate to ask."
Serendipity nods at Martin. "Mentioned him t'you before," he replies, perhaps to the unspoken comment, "...hasn't been in when I went by t' ask, though. I'll catch him, though." He doesn't sound too concerned, and extends a leg to lightly step on Rex's foot. "I'll come by an' bug you more, too. We c'n bake Martin a pie or something," he suggests.
"I appreciate the prayers for her," Rex replies, taking hold of the rope. "I say 'em every morning and night." He swings out onto the rope, his foot lingering behind for a moment before sliding out from under Ren's. "Def'nitely come by. We'll make pudding and pie an' have a lagniappe for ourselves." He smiles a cat smile at the Coyote, grins at Martin, and hand-over-hands himself to the ground. He hits running, and rapidly disappears down the road toward town.
Martin watches Rex go, and as he settles again with his head upon Ren's lap, he sighs contently. "He's... wow," seems to be all he can say.
Serendipity grins. "=I= like 'im," he agrees, and leans down to give Martin a good kiss of his own. "...glad you do too," he adds, and grins at him, upside down. "...an' he =does= do good pies."
Martin gazes up at Ren serenely, smiling a fiendishly content smile. "I'll never take good pie for granted," he vow solemnly. "Will he get by alright? Does he have family here aside from this Miss Anita?"
Serendipity shakes his head a little. "Miss Anita's not family by blood either, far's I c'n make out. But he's got us an' th' resta town, too, so yeah, I figure he'll be okay, all in all." He's quiet a moment, then grins crookedly and adds, "Reminds me I meant t' ask you what levela discreet you prefer."
Martin seems satisfied with Ren's answer, and he nods as he replies, "Good. It's a terrible thing to be alone in the world." He then smiles softly and reaches up to cup Ren's cheek with his palm. "Oh darling, I don't mind. If you feel like talking about your, ah, exploits, that's fine. If you'd rather keep them private, that's fine too."
Serendipity leans down and gives Martin another kiss, rather lingering. "I'm okay with whatever y'like," he replies, "...though admittedly I'm happier 'f y'at least don't mind me =mentionin'= anything. Otherwise, totally your call." He pauses, then adds teasingly, "If =you= do anything? I wanna know. Possibly in great detail, dependin'."
Martin returns the kiss, shamelessly sweet. "I know you're thinking lavascious thoughts," he confides quietly, "and I would be lying if I said I didn't have them too. In all truth, though, I think that if there is anything I feel I should hide from you, perhaps it is something I should think twice before doing."
"Well, ='course= you're havin' lascivious thoughts," Ren agrees, shrugging, and grins. "I'm not doin' anything I'm not willin' t' tell you as much as y'wanna know about. I just dunno how much you like t' know. Y'know? ...for all I know, y'like dramatic re-enactments." The grin goes wicked.
Martin considers this, one brow arching in the face of that wicked grin. "Well," he says. "I could give you the heartfelt answer, or I can see if a nice, hard romp will take your mind off innuendo for awhile."
Serendipity mock-pouts. "You make my life so hard. Can't I have both?" His interest in the latter is likely quite evident given Martin's current pillow, but he actually seems fairly serious about the former, too.
Martin has the gall to look scandalized. "Ren Jones," he murmurs with mild awe. "You're insatiable." He lifts his head, sitting up so that he can sling an arm around the kin's waist and draw him into a sprawl upon the blankets. "The heartfelt answer," he murmurs against Ren's ear, "is that you should never feel that you have to hide from me, not anything, not ever. The thing is, I adore you. I have you in my arms, and this makes me very happy. Everything else, that's just icing on the cake."
Serendipity doesn't resist being drawn down in the slightest, and sighs contentedly at the reply. "Doesn't mean you might not like one flavour of ice cream over another," he points out, but it's an idle argument, half-abandoned even as he's saying it. He rests his chin lightly on Martin's chest, and smiles at him. "Love you too, pireno. An' I am too satiable. 's just not =permanent= or anything..."
Martin shakes his head fondly, kissing Ren's hair as he says, "I'm just happy. I'm not sure I understand ice cream, but I know I like it." He nuzzles at the Ren-hair, unhurried as his hands peruse the kin's body casual-like. "Pireno?" he asks.
Serendipity blinks once, brow furrowing slightly. "Icing. Meant icing. Sorry." He plays with the waistband of Martin's trews, slipping a fingertip in just beside his hip and sliding it around the path of the fabric. "Pireno," he confirms, and tilts his head to look at Martin's face again. "Miros pireno. It's like..." he hesitates, thinking a moment. "...sweetheart, kinda."
Martin is going commando today, for what it's worth. Ren's fingertip comes into contact with bare skin, and Martin cuddles up closer in wordless encouragement. His expression also goes all soppy-sweet as he says, "Oh, that's adorable."
Serendipity laughs, letting his fingers invade and explore all along the edge there, and then a little further in, stroking across the skin. "Adorable how?" he asks, planting a kiss just below the blond's shoulder.
Martin squirms a little, not in any discomfort, mind. He's just poignantly aware of those questing fingers. If they quest much further, that awareness will no doubt become pleasant distraction. "You called me pireno," he explains, mid-nuzzle. "And you're adorable. I adore you, therefore by definition..."
Serendipity grins and shakes his head slightly, stretching up to steal a lingering kiss, his fingers taking a brief break from their explorations. "...I c'n call you outher things, too, 'f you like," he teases, "...miro ves'tacha, miro camomescro rinkeno, miro mora buinav midjloli baro..."
Martin shivers, his voice dropping nice and low as he murmurs, "Do I want to know what all that means? Or should I just enjoy the fact that you're saying it?" He seems to be a fan of linguistics, in that his hands begin moving with more purpose over Ren's body, specifically the purpose of getting him naked.
Serendipity doesn't get in the way of Martin getting the trousers off, though his hands are too busy to help, as the fingers below the fabric start exploring that skin again, and the other hand decide Martin's got a good plan re: pants in this situation. He kisses up along the blond's neck toward his ear, murmuring what's quite likely a translation: "...my beloved, my handsome lover, my..." he trails off, grin audible as the intrepid fingers find and lay claim to a most distracting landmark, and he nips an earlobe sharply.
Martin peels off the leather, not bothering to be neat about tossing it aside before he kisses his way up the length of Ren's body, right into those capable hands. The nip gets a hiss of breath, and then a low growl as Ren's fingers happen across quite the, uh, landmark. Apparently Martin really does like foreign languages. He tilts his head to plant an intent, hungry kiss on the kin's mouth, pressing him insistently against the blankets.
Serendipity's half of the kiss is just as hungry, and he manages to get the fabric out of the way quite quickly, if not carefully. If it rips, there's surely a needle and thread somewhere. He's much more interested in spending his attention -- and dexterity -- on the heat and heft of revealed flesh. When the kiss finally breaks, he murmurs breathlessly, "y'know, 'side from mine, I c'n also speak any other language in th' world..."
Martin doesn't quite melt. Parts of him do just the opposite in fact, but his rather strong form does meld rather neatly to Ren's as he takes in this new bit of news. With a low, guttural groan, he whispers raggedly, "Praise be to the Lord." Then there is more kissing, rough and needy.