Tribute Ch. 03

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Getting too comfortable...
2.5k words
4.68
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Part 3 of the 5 part series

Updated 09/22/2022
Created 03/26/2013
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Note: No vivid sexual scenes will be described in this story.


Days seemed longer, now that there was a stranger's company around.

Nearly a week later Beauregard had a piano moved into the downstairs living room. Something I was silently all for.

I was now employed too. My income was small with the part-time job, so I was still allowed a housing waiver, but at least money was reaching me.

I sat on the porch. The rain dripped in longer streaming droplets from the shingled edge of the roof's overhang. My chin rest between my knees, my arms wrapped about my legs.

My dad's description of me was spot on. I was like a wary dog when it came to people I didn't know. I avoided them. I tried to not bring any attention to myself or my whereabouts. What bothered me most was that I couldn't seem to break out of this habit. Eternally shy, or in my case, fatally shy. If I met someone who spoke directly to me out at a store someplace, I could play the relaxed, friendly person. Once I saw them regularly, for more than just a temporary visit, I suddenly grew uncomfortable.

I just hoped I wasn't coming across as a jerk, because I had no bad feelings against Beauregard. He seemed really nice. Esquivo just loved him, which wasn't (normally) easy for that dog.

Behind me I heard the screen door creak open. I looked back; surprised if it was Esquivo. He hates the rain, and storms even more. I sometimes wondered if he was a cat trapped inside a dog's body, with all the other weird cat-like things he tended to do.

Instead I saw Beauregard. He motioned if he could sit down too. I nod with a kind smile.

So there was that uncomfortable stillness as I sat like I had been sitting, and him sitting not too far away beside me. I was prepared to open my mouth at several different points, but couldn't find a point of conversation to launch from.

He shifts as he removed something from a back pocket of his jeans. I didn't look over to see whether it was a pack of cigarettes, or what. I could see his hands moving methodically. I figured if a waft of smoke billowed over I'd leave as discretely as possible.

A sharp whistle made me look over sharply. He smiled while handing me a small pocket notepad.

"Have I irritated you at all?"

I looked up from the writing to see he was indeed concerned that my shyness was something aggressive instead.

I point to the pen in his hand, which he then hand me. I wrote back a reply of how it was just me being a nervous type of person with other people; nothing against him in the least. He had leaned towards me slightly, reading beyond my hand. A corner of my mouth lifts a little as I finished writing the last word.

Beauregard then pulls back while he nods. Then he raises a hand and signs near his face, which my head tilts inadvertently as I try and figure out what he means. The minimal amount of sign I ever did learn finally comes to use when he changes tactics and signs "okay".

I try not to let my sight settle on his face, his eyes. But they catch my interest way too often when I do see him. From the distance I keep between us, I cannot tell if his eyes are gray or a light jade green like my own. I quickly rip away my attention to scan the floorboards as I swivel my gaze slowly to the rain pelting down on everything beyond this porch.

Even though I can feel him watching me, I continue to study everything else. I cannot hear anything but an assaulting beat, the rain is so loud. A fine mist is settling on everything not exposed directly to the rain.

A tap at my shoulder makes me look over to see Beauregard holding the pad of paper out to me.

"How do you know my grandparents?"

Honestly I was surprised they hadn't said anything.

I wrote back about my agreement with them and the job I now had. While doing so I shift to sit cross-legged. Beauregard moved closer before I hand the notepad back to him. By now we sat close enough that he didn't have to shift to read what I was writing.

"It sounds..." The pen in Beauregard's hand stalled over an empty space as he tried to think of an adequate word for my new job as a postal worker in an office complex. I tapped his hand with my writing hand. He relinquished the pen for me to write, "Boring".

Unexpectedly he laughed. I continued to write,"So, what do you do for employment?"

He pulled the pen from my hand smoothly before he replied, "online tutoring for (deaf, hard of hearing, or hearing) students learning ASL. A Skype-styled format."

"That's awesome," I replied out loud as I looked over to him. It turns out 'over to him' was closer than I was expecting since we sat as we did now. His eyes were definitely a gray version of my own greenish ones; A dark ring of color around the iris. Except his had no orange—but that didn't signify anything unlikeable in their uniformity of color.

I must have spoken clear enough (usually I speak when looking down or away), because he understood. I felt my face heat up at this close proximity, which bothered me since we'd been writing for a while now and it hadn't made me uncomfortable earlier.

"Do you want to learn ASL?" he wrote.

His question helped me gain control of my thoughts. "How much do your classes cost?"

He tapped a finger on his question. "Yes," I wrote next to his.

"Okay"

This time I tapped the notepad over my question. He took the pen and notepad back, stuffing them wherever he carried them.

I tipped my head with an eyebrow scrunched as I watched him, since he clearly ignored my question entirely. My face was on the downhill of cooling off when, half-smiling, he reached towards me and touched the side of my face with the backs of his fingers.

Just as quickly his fingers were away, and my face was warmer than a fire in August, with gasoline. Dear Lord how I hate my blushing. Where was one of those quicksand pits to eat up my half of the porch when you needed it?

I bit my bottom lip in embarrassment as I stood. Before heading back inside, I gave a small wave, still a bit pink in the face.

His eyes seemed hard as he brushed his fingers over his chin before waving back to me.

--------------------------------

I was glad it was my day off from work, because the rain continued all day. I would have had to tie Esquivo out if I had, had to go to work. That is just one of those things I didn't leave for anyone else to care for. Esquivo was kind of like a convict. He couldn't be anywhere without being contained somehow. It was something I had to grow accustomed to, because I'd never known a dog like this. Growing up around Collies and German Shepherds did not prepare me for this wolf dog.

That was something I was careful about telling to people. I mean, if he was dangerous, I'd have him put down.

But Esquivo wasn't dangerous, towards people, anyway.

If he was comfortable with you he act like the husky cross he was—the sweet crazy friend. If he was outside loose or just plain nervous about somebody, he'd be wary.

The percentage of wolf in him had to be infinitesimally small, because his behavior bordered husky so well—which is why I introduced him as a mix of that.

Right now, because thunder had come rolling through, the 'big bad wolf' was underneath my bed.

He really hates storms.

A knock at my bedroom door caught my attention.
Beauregard made a few motions slowly, which I figured meant he was being polite and asking if he could come in.

I nod and gave a wave.

He pulled out the small notepad again, "ready for the A, B, C's of ASL?"

I pursed my mouth slightly, "sure," I finally agreed.

------------------------------

Beauregard had begun with teaching me fingerspelling, that way the notepad could be a discontinued object. While fingerspelling took more time, even though I was becoming quicker, at least we understood one another.

Occasionally I dueled with the blushing. Thankfully Beauregard didn't mention it, again. He did once, which I tried to brush off as quickly and unimportant-like, as possible. This daily exchange with him was helping for my body to mellow a little.

Esquivo had adopted Beauregard as a forever roomie, and was happy to howl-growl at him when he returned from spending time with friends or family.

On the side I still wrote music, because it was one of my passions, and ran with Esquivo nearly every night.

One of the nights after work I left my sheet music portfolio out on a counter top. I returned from a jog with Esquivo to see Beauregard looking at the first piece—which is how I had left it. My most recent piece on the very top, and open for all to see because I forgot to add a few marks and didn't want to forget.

The only thing I forgot was to shut the folder. Or hide it.

"What's this?" Beauregard signed one of the new phrases he had recently introduced me to. He was a strict right-handed sort, so he switched the mug he held to his left.

"A hobby," I replied, my signing still on the slower side. At least I was intelligible.

"May I?" Beauregard asked pointing to the folder of my music.

I nod. He took another sip out of the mug before setting it on the counter a ways away from my music sheets.

His fingertips followed the lines of music as they were intended to be played.

Beauregard turned a small amount of attention to reach down to pet Esquivo when he leaned against his leg; his eyes still following the page.

And yes, I took full liberty to watch the beauty that is Beauregard. He still reminds me of Elmo, but I still don't know why. Even now, I admire his individuality. He is nice to my dog, and better yet, Esquivo genuinely likes him. The guy respects me and my space. He has the patience to teach me a whole new language without making me pay for lessons. And from what I have gathered, he and I have at least a little in common.

It's about time a friend came along, I think. Beauregard then grasps the first solo and takes it to his piano.

He becomes settled, to rest his fingers above the keys. With a glance over to me he gives me a smile before beginning.

I'll admit that while I have a music memory, it doesn't hold a flame to actually being played. Every note echoed sweetly, the song exuding a powerful melody just as I wished it would.

The solo only last around four minutes, but that time was well spent. Beauregard played the last notes, letting them hang in the air.

He signed a shape before his face.

"What?" I stepped closer to be taught this new sign.

"This, it's beautiful," Beauregard said; showing me that the sign meant beautiful.

"Thank you," I replied, "but I think you made it sound better than how I wrote it," I then grinned.

He seemed to grow thoughtful, possibly sad even. I couldn't tell and wondered if I had signed something wrong.

Beauregard then waived some fingers in the air before dashing off down the hall. I had time to wave at the lounging Esquivo on the couch, who limply bobbed his tail in reply, his cute cream eyes squinting mischievously.

When Beauregard returned, he held a pair of earplugs out to me. I took them and he motioned for me to put them on. He then point at the seat to sit next to him.

I glanced to him once seated, and he shifts to rest his fingers over the keys once more.
This time I heard nothing. At least, not the sounds I had heard before.

Instead I felt the rhythm. I lift my hands to rest on the buckboard, to feel the notes being played. It was a different song. A mystically majestic tune that I was hearing anew, one that made me want to share the one I had heard originally with him too—because both were the same and yet entirely different.

At the last notes he looks over at me.

"Beautiful," I agreed.

He then hand me back my music sheets, "thank you."

"You're welcome, it was my pleasure," I returned the earplugs before I started to slide out of the seat. That's when Beauregard caught my attention to say something.

"Thank you for being so nice about me coming here," he paused, "for playing your music and bringing in a piano," Beauregard's eyes spoke volumes more than he was already saying, "for accepting me."

"It's okay, I understand," I said, and I meant every word—if he was speaking about family troubles, that is. I had been to hell and back in that boat and I was never going to go rowing again.

"You have problems with your family too?" Beauregard asked slowly.

"Yeah," I said with a 'guilty' kind of face, "that's part of the reason why I am here and not there."

And before I knew it he and I were venting about the families we were the black sheep in. It wasn't until I inadvertently yawned that I realized how tired I was—which eventually led to me checking how late we had stayed up talking.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have kept you up-," Beauregard began but I cut him off.

"Actually, this was nice. Most people don't understand how you feel, how I feel. At least, I have talked to a good number who don't." I knew I had to go to bed soon. I misspelled at least twelve times.

He seemed to get the gist though.

"Goodnight Natasha"

"Goodnight Beauregard," I sleepily smiled, which he grinned at. Somehow I trudged up the stairs, Esquivo following, and eventually rolled across my bed to comfort.

------------------------------

I sighed as his scent engulfed me. Something was different though. I couldn't quite pin it down. Elmo lay over my lower body, both of us clothed, and him resting his head on my abdomen.

I smoothed my fingers through his hair, slid my fingertips across his cheek.

He grabbed my hand gently, kissing the palm. His gray eyes seemed especially familiar. Then he signed something.

I awoke with groggily, wide eyes.

That's why it was different. I dreamt of Beauregard's scent. Of Beauregard, in general.

I can't believe I did that.

UnknownPath

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READ MORE OF THIS SERIES

Tribute Ch. 02 Previous Part
Tribute Series Info

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