ArchivedLogs:Demands

Demands
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Matt, Steve	2016-10-21 “Have you met many parents, Steve?”
Location <NYC> Tessier Residence - Greenwich Village
Understated opulence claims this spacious and well-kept townhome, the decor throughout the whole of it of the highest quality and carefully chosen. The front door opens onto the entrance hall, a closet close at hand to receive coats and shoes -- the pale hardwood floors gleam underfoot, unsullied by tracked-in mess from outside. The living room beyond the entrance is all dark woods and pale earth tones, comfortable couches and armchairs and a thick soft rug laid down beneath. Two large and painstakingly aquascaped aquariums flank the entrance to the dining room, with several brightly coloured species of fish within. Most of the rest of the wall space, notably, is taken up with shelves -- shelves crammed with books of every subject and genre. A study branching off of the main hall is cozy, small, done in pale blues and lined with books as well around the large computer desk and smaller futon, though these rarer books are cased behind glass. Another securely locked door leads to the basement, and another to the full bathroom downstairs. The kitchen connects to the living room; in contrast, it is sleek and modern and well-appointed, stocked by someone who takes their cooking seriously. And takes their alcohol equally seriously -- to one side of the kitchen there is a fully-stocked bar. The back door to the kitchen looks out on a small well-kept garden. It's quite late on a Friday night, but the house blazes with light and activity. Bright chatter issues from Desi’s room, interrupted here and there with bursts of laughter; the music from Gaetan’s room is only just quiet enough to avoid the ire of neighbors. The conversation from the kitchen is more sedate, but the bustle of food preparation certainly is not, especially with one very eager dog darting from one person to the next, hopeful for treats both intentional and otherwise. The warm, savory scent of something heavy in garlic and comfort fills the room, and through the open window the breeze brings occasional whiffs of petrichor from the rain-soaked garden. Matt stands at the sink, rinsing off a big, splendidly curly bundle of kale. He's humming “Wild Magic” somewhat tunelessly, his butchery of the music largely masked by running water. He wears a seafoam green t-shirt mostly taken up by a great sperm whale curled beneath an eight-pointed star, and gray cargo shorts. Turning off the water, he sets to stripping the leafy parts of the vegetable from the stems. “I would love to bring them to a tournament sometime, but I'd need approval from the administration, of course, and that's not been easy to come by.” He looks down at Flèche, who stares back up expectantly, head cocked such that both of her ears stand erect. “{If you insist, my dear,}” he says quietly, slipping her a small leaf, stem and all. There are two skillets on the stovetop, the large about half-full of sweet potatoes and other tubers, while in the the small one thin strips of shiitakes sizzle animatedly in oil. Steve is tending to them both with admirable coordination while also turning to glance at Matt as often as he can spare his eyes. His blond hair is spiky-damp, tousled as from a vigorous toweling off. He wears a soft light blue Henley and much darker blue jeans -- both Lucien’s. “Surely they're not overly concerned for the students’ safety /at a chess tournament/? Unless this game is more cutthroat than I ever gave it credit.” The shower has been running elsewhere in the house, adding to the jumble of background noises. It has stopped some short while back, and presently Lucien comes trudging into the kitchen, barefoot and in dark grey jeans with a deep green v-neck tee. His own hair is damp as well, a deep shade of inky blue-black that still glistens from its recent washing. He avoids food preparation, heading instead to the freezer to pour himself a squat glass of vodka. Unthinking, he picks up the tune in time with Matt -- though his quiet singing is a good deal richer, carrying the exuberant song with ease. At least, until he cuts himself off with a quiet huff,a quick shake of his head, lips twisting up slightly in time with the sharp puff of laugh. “Have you met many parents, Steve?” The question is light, as he settles down onto a cushion at the breakfast nook, setting his bottle on a coaster in front of him. Tucking one leg up beneath himself, he turns sideways in his seat, propping an elbow on the also-cushioned window ledge. “All children's competitions can be cutthroat.” Flèche leaves off trying to beg more kale from Matt and follows Lucien around the kitchen, tail lashing the air behind her with tremendous energy. She settles beside him once he has taken a seat, resting her muzzle on his knee and turning her most solicitous gaze upon him. “Chess is pretty cutthroat all on its own!” Matt heaps the last of the kale leaves into a colander and chops up the stems before delivering the whole cutting board to Steve. “Piling a bunch of whip-smart teenagers and their parents--or at least their parents’ /expectations/ into a conference hall makes for a volatile scene.” He lays a hand on Steve’s arm with a quiet “{Excuse me}” as he reaches past to pluck the steaming kettle from a back burner. The round, glossy celadon teapot is already sitting on the island counter, prepped, and once he fills it with water the buttery fragrance of a fine Long Jing green blooms in the air. “But anyway, Xavier’s current reluctance to approve additional extracurricular events has got as much to do with budgetary restraints as safety concerns. Anything else need chopping?” Though, even so saying, he has drifted over to his brother to dispense shoulder rubs. “I've met...some?” Steve lifts one eyebrow. “But I never got the impression that any of them would break out in fisticuffs over their child losing at chess. Admittedly, I've never been to this kind of event.” He scrapes the kale stems into the larger skillet and folds them into the starchier vegetables. Glances around the counter appraisingly. “Non, merci. You've been a great help.” His eyes skip over to the Tessiers, linger for a moment. Then he's in motion again, adding pepper to the nearly completed hash, turning off the heat under the shiitake ‘bacon.’ “How's the show been going? Less grueling, I hope.” “{Have you grown a taste for vodka, pretty girl?} I am not /such/ a dreadful influence quite yet, surely?” Lucien's brows raise as he lifts his glass, taking a swallow. His free hand drops to Flèche's head, stroking slow and absent. His eyes flutter partway closed at the rising smell of tea, though it isn't until Matt's shoulder rub that the tension in his muscles gradually begins to ease. His mind, in contrast, is a tightly clamped place still, meticulously flattened down into a carefully regimented steadiness. “The show has been --” Lucien hesitates, a faint furrow between his brows as he leans just slightly back into his brother's touch. “Grueling. {I cannot thank you enough for,}” he gestures with his glass towards the stove, “{All this.}” Matt chuckles, shaking his head. “There isn't generally much in the way of fisticuffs, but there's always much posturing and usually some harsh words.” His hands knead harder when Luci presses back into them. His power winds gently around his brother’s, coaxing from him the load of keeping his emotions level. “The performances I've seen this week have been spectacular. I think the cast and crew are really getting into the rhythm, and I can't wait until they /really/ hit their stride.” Flèche, for her part, just leans into Lucien’s petting, her ears flattened back and her eyes half-lidded, tail thumping languidly against the floor. “Oh yes, the food smells absolutely wonderful. It's also just nice to see you again--busy week, I gather?” Steve spares another look at Lucien specifically, pale blue eyes studying him hard from beneath faintly furrowed brows. “It's been a while for me, but I know that putting on these huge productions is terribly stressful. If you ever want to talk shop, vent -- I'm happy to listen.” He adds the kale greens now, a handful at a time to give it room while it cooks down. “{Don't thank me until you've tasted it!} I have been busy, but truly, it's my pleasure. If you want help with your cooking for the week, I'm also free Monday night.” Once the last of the kale has gone in, he takes a spoon to taste the hash. Considers it a moment. Then adds some salt. “If you must, consider it payment for your excellent instruction, but really...” He shrugs, the flex of his musculature apparent under the slightly tight shirt. “...you are my friends, and I want to support you.” Lucien's fingers curl fractionally tighter against his glass, the tips of his nailbeds pressing faintly white. There's a strained tension in his mind, clinging hard to his tight control before slowly easing his grip in a slow mental lean into his brother's assistance. “Stressful.” This echo comes at a slight delay; his eyes have dropped to study Flèche's head, lifting only belatedly back to Steve. “It has been a week, yes.” Quiet, a very faint upward twitch of one corner of his mouth. It levels into a proper smile soon after. “But if the performances are spectacular as all that, perhaps worth it.” He tips his glass back, draining it quickly and setting it down on the table to refill. “You /are/ too kind. Surely, though, you have more than your own share of /busy/ to juggle. I appreciate the help, but --” His brows quirk, fingertips toying idly with Flèche's upright ear. “Has SHIELD run out of ways to make demands on your time?” With a hint more wry amusement: “This near to the election, has /America/?” Matt's hands clamp down on Lucien's shoulders, his mind tightening with concentration before settling into the familiar work of regulating his brother's mind. "/You're/ always spectacular. It's as much a bug as it is a feature." The note of worry in his voice is faint but plain. He resumes kneading, slow and gentle. "The both of you, really, with this 'the show must go on' attitude, as though you believe you could carry the whole world on your backs--or /should/." Flèche is slowly tilting her head in the direction of Lucien's caress, and the effect makes her look exceedingly skeptical. “They make plenty of /demands,/ but as someone reminded me lately...we're not going to be too effective in our battles if we don't make time for what we want.” Steve swallows, lets out a long, slow breath. “There's a whole lot I want and cannot have,” he says slowly, evenly. “But this I can do. Even if it's just a meal and being here.” He turns off the fire under the larger skillet and gives it one final, decisive stirring. “Well, this is as ready as it's going to be -- I'm sure you're famished.” A twitch of a smile, “/I/ am, anyhow.” For a very brief second, Lucien's breathing pauses -- only a heartbeat, after which he takes another long swallow of vodka. “The only world I carry is Faerie, and that only for eight shows a week.” Lightly, as he rises, patting Flèche on the head and pulling away from Matt to go retrieve dishes from the cabinet. “Of the two of us, Steve's shoulders bear a far heavier --” If there is an end to this sentence, it is cut off in the clink of dinnerware being set down on the table. Lucien glances up at Steve, a small frown pulling his brows together. “It's been a while since I've eaten, yes. Merci.”