ArchivedLogs:Refreshing

Refreshing
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Lucien, Micah, Parley	2013-07-20 (The phone call is concurrent with Murphy's home visit.)
Location <NYC> 303 {Lighthaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late myriad bright-coloured dragonflies swarm across the living room wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. Evening has brought the city to a state of just plain hot and humid from the day's earlier unbelievable oppression disguised as weather. As such, Micah went in search of /shower/ upon arriving home to an empty apartment. There are few sounds from within as he pads around barefoot, clad in an extremely worn and patched pair of jeans, coupled with a powder blue T-shirt bearing an oversized Cheshire cat-smiling Totoro face. Little effort seems to have been put into drying his hair, which is a spiky-wet mess half clinging to his head and giving off occasional drips of water down his neck and face. Knock! Knock! Knock! Even in the oppressive heat Lucien manages to look put-together. Mostly. His clothes are neat and crisp, pale green button down, pale linen pants, dark loafers, dark vest. Hair very /carefully/ tousled. Admittedly, it is starting to dampen with a beading of sweat in the un-air-conditioned building, a fact which is undoubtedly /galling/ him to no end. It's putting a crisp /edge/ to his knocking. Knock! Knock /knock/! The rest of him is polished. Polished attire, polished /mind/, glassy-smooth as ever and betraying very /little/ in its impeccably /calm/ unruffled surface; to psionic senses it is very much /there/, just very much -- tranquil. Smooth. Not unreadable, just un/written/, betraying very little that he does not /choose/ to place there. Much like his expression, which at the moment has a faint press of lips, the faintest touch of worried impatience. Knock! He's even checking the time on his phone to add to this impression. Parley is not dressed in his Sunday best; working from home and in his natural habitat has made it a time for running feral - he's wearing just a thin thriftstore white undershirt, which makes his furry shoulders and back visible through the narrow racerback cut of cloth. He's just had a shower himself from wherever he's come from, and in the dorm-room ambiance of the apartments is just bringing his towel along with him. Scrubbing at the stiff bristles of his dark hair, sticking out in damp spikes. His subdued presence makes his arrival something silent until he chooses to speak, which shatters the camouflage, "-ah. Is no one home?" In one hand, he's carrying a clean, empty casserole dish. It's possible he's come to return it to the Holland household. That or... he's here to beg for some casserole to put in it. That is a lot of knocking! Especially as Micah goes skid-scrambling across the floor a bit to reach the door as quickly as possible. His mind is flitting through /scenarios/. Knocking is relatively infrequent due to the number of /keys/ that are handed out, but maybe someone forgot theirs! Or it could be an emergency. Which seems all the more likely for so many knocks! He throws the lock and pulls the door open in practically the same motion. "Is everythin' okay?" serves in place of a more traditional greeting as Micah has managed to work himself into brow furrowing level of worry before he lays eyes on the unexpected guests. Spillover nervous energy emerges through his feet, rocking him up on his toes and back several times. Lucien's hand freezes against the door when Parley speaks. "-- Ah --" It takes a moment before it drops, his bright green eyes cutting sidelong to the smaller man. "I hope someone is," he answers mildly, voice tinged quiet with soft francophone accent. " -- Micah." He slips his phone back into his pocket after one more check of the time; a small smile curls his lips. Brief. "My sister is not cajoling dinner off you and your partner, is she?" He sounds hopeful. And very faintly weary. Until the door opens, Parley's eyes are studying the side of Lucien's tidily-touseled head, head politely tipped down and absently adjusting his towel along the back of his shoulders to lay across his fur. And then there's Micah, and he gets into the verbal queue to tack in at the end of Lucien's own greeting with, "I brought a pan." It's - kind of flourished. In that he holds it up. Then lowers it again. Totally a pan. Micah pushes the door open further when immediate crises are not presented, stepping back out of the doorway and waving the pair in from the hall. "Desi? Is she missin'? I think she usually hangs 'round next door with Shane'n 'Bastian. Did you check the roof? Got a sprinkler goin' up there. Think the boys've been half livin' under it." He watches the pan like a dog watching potential food go by, his head tracking along with his eyes. "Pan? Oh, is that Jax's? I can...take that." A palm is placed out to relieve Parley of the pan, if that is his intention. "Y'all need somethin' t'drink?" Lucien's gaze, in turn, is flicking over Parley. Over hair. Over /fur/, until it is covered. His lips compress, eyes shifting back to Micah's wet hair instead. "I checked the roof. And the childrens' apartment. And the quasi-childrens' apartment," please ignore that half the residents of Geekhaus are older than he is, "upstairs. Bastian seems to have absconded with her." The level of aggrieved his tone is managing is, admittedly, exceedingly /mild/. He slips in to the apartment, lingering in the entryway hall to let his eyes drift over the bright-painted living room walls. "You," he asks Parley, without a great /deal/ of hope but with his aggrieved edging towards amusement, "have not seen a tiny blue shark in company with a --" he waves his hand about shoulder-height, which, on him, is actually middling-/tall/ for a teenage girl, "young woman. Brown hair. Green eyes. Late for dinner." This last may not be a /visually/ distinctive characteristic, and /yet/. Parley makes a wry chuff, gently hoarding the pan against his chest, out of Micah's grip, "I can put a pan away, Mr. Zedner." He slips into the apartment as well, hips rolling with loose distributions of weight through each step, lively on his toes as he comments over a shoulder, "There's no one on the roof, anyway. I was up there not long ago." He runs a scan of eyes up and down the indicated size Lucien demonstrates, "We have a number of tiny blue sharks. Young women of that size... Mn." He is edging towards the kitchen area. He'll just check the cabinets for you, Lucien. "Have you tried texting either of them? That's usually the better way to track down teenagers," Micah offers, pressing the door closed softly behind the others once they are inside. Parley's honorific earns a sour face and crinkled nose. "I'm sure you're perfectly capable, it's just not what usually..." the protest fizzles as he trails Parley into the kitchen. "Drinks?" he offers again. "We have 'em. Some of 'em are cold, even." He gestures toward the refrigerator, as if further illustration is needed. Right there would be where the cold things come from. "I had tried," Lucien agrees, with a very small furrow of his brows as he watches the others. For a moment he hangs back by the door but then, slightly resigned, toes off his shoes and follows them inside. "Something cold would be delightful." His lips twitch faintly at Parley's answer. "There is rather an /infestation/ of sharks around here, mmn?" He drifts forward, not into the kitchen but to the other side of it, resting elbows against the wall between kitchen and living area. "My apologies," he adds, at a delay. "For the intrusion. Around here, people are -- occasionally." His eyes lower to his hands, his fingers lacing together against the countertop. "Easily misplaced." "That or," Parley says quietly from elbow deep in a cabinet, clearing shelf space into which he can slide the pan home. The position bends an absent rasp into his voice. When he emerges, it evens out, arming damp hair off his brow, "we just notice it sooner when they are." He stands to pull three glasses from a different cabinet, though the third is held up inquiringly to Micah - will he also be having something? "How long has she been missing, mh, Mr.--?" "If it gets to the point that y'all are really worried they been missin' too long, the twins' school can track their phones." Micah pauses with his hand on the refrigerator door, turning to watch Lucien as he speaks. "You're not intrudin'. You're welcome t'stay here 'til folks is found, even. It can be worryin' a little faster for us 'round here than most." Parley retrieving glasses draws a somewhat baffled look, though he does nod to indicate three would be best. But Micah is in front of the source of drinks, so he has that! "We at least got sweet tea an' orange juice at any time, if either of those sound good? An' some kinda not-milk." "My apologies, Micah, you mistake me," Lucien says with a small shake of his head, "I am hardly /worried/. I do not think they have come to any /harm/, I am in fact quite certain they have come to --" He hesitates, tipping his gaze up towards the ceiling. "Do you ‘come to' fun, I wonder? -- Desi has a habit of rabbiting off, only amplified when in company with the twins. They entertain each other. With little regard," his lips twitch upwards at the corners, slightly, "for trivialities like schedules. Ah -- orange juice would be lovely, thank you." His head turns back down, his eyes settling on Parley. "-- I suppose around here people would be rather /attentive/ to the missing. I am Lucien." Parley gives Micah an inscrutable, semi-wide-eyed look /back/ while setting out the three glasses, pausing for a moment - then twitching the side of his mouth semi-apologetically as he finalizes the glass arrangement. No taking it back now. "Orange juice for me as well, please." It is sort of a question, rotating to fold hands behind his tailbone, leaning back to pin them against the counter. Watching Lucien tip back his head, watching it return. "Hn, I think one of the appeals of fun is forgetting responsibilities for a while. Unfortunately." Already in a position for it, he bends slightly at the waist when the other man introduces himself, brows jumping upward with a spark of recognition, "Nice to meet you - I think I've heard your name here before. You know Miss Nox, don't you?" "Okay, maybe s'just me as starts t'worry quick when people ain't where they belong," Micah concedes with a small smile. He opens the refrigerator to withdraw the orange juice, untwisting the cap as he pads across the floor to where Parley has arranged the glasses. Each is filled with juice in turn, though there is a bit of a hiccup in the smoothness of the process as Micah's shoulders tense when Nox is mentioned by name. He has gotten a little too used to being protective of her existence. He forces himself to relax again, returning the container to the refrigerator before fetching two of the glasses, keeping one for himself and delivering the other to Lucien. "Is it?" Lucien asks quiet-mild, eyes drifting to absently watch the orange juice as it is poured. "I suppose everyone has their own ways of enjoying themselves." Across the smooth calm surface of his mind a faint wisp of shadow curls, ghosting there like smoke and then vanishing. "I am sorry," he murmurs, "I did not get /your/ name. Are you a friend of Nox's?" His eyes cut to Micah, taking in tension with a bland dispassion in his expression. "Merci." When he reaches to take the glass of orange juice from the other man there's a rather deliberate brush of fingers, a rather deliberate brush of /calm/ warm and soothing that whispers subtle-soft to twine itself into Micah's mind. "I think," he offers lightly, "you are quick to worry quite /often/." "She helped me once," Parley answers, distantly, following Micah's movement through the kitchen with dark eyes. He reaches out, eventually, to collect his own glass, leaving his unused hand tucked behind his back to cushion his lean. The side of his mouth doesn't exactly curl up so much as pull back, into a slight dimple. It's a weary shape, offered to Lucien, "I hadn't given it yet. I'm Parley." The unflorished murmur laces the surface of his drink, re-internalized when he dips his head to sip, one finger lifting to indicate the ceiling, "I live... upstairs." "'Welcome," Micah replies with a nod as the glass is taken, the brush also receiving an appreciative look. "That's prob'ly a fair accusation," he admits, a hint of a grin toying at his lips. "Doesn't help that I've got reason an' more to be worryin' at least half the time, it seems." He taps his fingers against his glass at the late exchanging of names. "Mmn...sorry, I forgot to introduce you. I get distracted easy." He snakes his fingers through his hair quickly, spiking the still-damp mess even further. "Y'all wanna sit?" A vague waving gesture indicates the living room as the appropriate location for this as Micah recalls other hosting duties. "Mmmn," Lucien answers, also rather noncommittal-distant, "she can be helpful." He doesn't return Parley's not-quite-smile, at least not with his mouth though there's a faint crinkling at the corners of his eyes that indicates one regardless. He straightens, dragging his glass back towards himself across the counter, and turns when Micah gestures to slip further back into the living room. "A common affliction, too, around here." He doesn't take a seat so much as leans a hip up against the side edge of the couch, eyes flicking in turn over Parley's weary expression, Micah's dutiful hosting. Now he /does/ smile, a quicksilver curl of lips that warms his brilliant green eyes, softens the clean angular lines of his expression. He tips his head down, wipes the back of his hand against his forehead to dab beaded sweat away from his hairline. "If I did sit, would you relax? There is generally a shortage of /that/. Only," his smile quirks a bit more upward, "fretting. Admittedly this city gives plenty of reason," he will allow, letting his weight settle that much more heavily against the couch, "but. Not," one of his hands comes away from the glass, turns its way upwards, fingers spreading slightly, "today." "I shouldn't," Parley maintains the steady simple monotone, speaking softly into his glass. "I wasn't meaning to intrude even this long." There doesn't seem to be much fretting in this corner, rocked back on heels with drink hovering beneath his nose. Though he does add, crossing his ankles, "Though I appreciate the drink. - were you just getting home?" Micah returns Lucien's smile with one of his own, following him back into the living room. "Don't need t'do anythin' you don't feel like." He sets his glass down on a table, freeing up his hands to hold palms out, as if for inspection. "No more worryin'. 'Least if you're not, anyhow. I trust folks t'set the pace of frettin' over their own kin," he explains with a light chuckle, aimed mostly at himself. Micah doesn't take a seat, however, keeping to where he can still converse with both Lucien and Parley without calling across rooms. "You're not intrudin' on nothin', Parley. You're welcome to the drink, an' t'stay a bit if y'want. Only gotta be hurryin' out if you got things of your own to tend. I did just get home a little bit ago. So, like I said, nothin' to intrude on, really." Lucien exhales, at Parley's monotone answer; sharp and quick, it has only the upward curl of his lips to give it marker as laughter. "Oh," his tone is light, quietly amused, "my days of fretting over my kin --" Twitch-smile, quicksilver-brief but warm for all its brevity. He /does/ inspect Micah's out-turned palm, /very/ intently. One arm even lifts, extending to trace a forefinger horizontally along the heart line across Micah's hand; his finger is chill-damp from the condensation on his glass before it drops back to his side. The touch comes, again, with another warm flush, calm-soothing-happy. He leans back, away from Micah again, against the couch. Sips his drink, glances back to Parley. And then away, to the window. "Everyone has things of their own to tend, non? I have heard," the same amusement is creeping back into his voice; it's mild, buried somewhere low in his gentle baritone, "that part of the appeal of fun is in forgetting one's responsibilities but, ah -- there are times and places for fun and perhaps this evening is not." Another sip of juice. Prim. Small. "One." Micah's conscientious placement between himself and Lucien succeeds in dragging a soft exhale of surrender through Parley's nose. He leans away from the counter until he breaks free of its gravitation, and walks in silent ushering towards Micah, his arms out to shepherd him towards a seat alongside Lucien, "Mnh, perhaps for a little while. I've been having - /fun/ most of the day, a little longer shouldn't hurt." It's not a terribly aggressive shepherding, though he does try to flex a modicum of sternness into his washed out presence. Sit, for goodness sakes. Curiously watching Lucien's fingers trace Micah's palm, he's not deeply probing, though retains exisential sensitivity to what ripples it may cause, placing the toe of a foot behind the heel of the next to back up to a chair, sitting opposite the couch. He tucks into the corner of it, back resting where the backrest and armrest converge. Beneath lashes, his eyes are set quietly on Lucien's face, when his words pass through 'fretting' and 'kin', lingering for a long moment, then they slide back to Micah, "It's a shame your work doesn't really have the luxury of working from home. The city's been stirred up for so long now I've almost forgotten what it was like before." Micah's head cants, observing Lucien like an inquisitive bird. "Readin' palms now, Lucien?" he inquires with a just a hint of a smirk stealing slowly across his lips. The touch instigates a subtle shiver, whether from its chill or its more unique properties is difficult to discern, but his hand does not withdraw. Lucien's quoting is answered with a "Hm," that is couched in near-laughter. "Don't go declarin' fun off-limits for an entire evenin'. Won't know what t'do with m'self an' might have t'go back to worryin'." It is a teasing sort of non-threat. It doesn't take very aggressive shepherding—or even verbal instruction, it seems—to send Micah toward the indicated seat. He collects his glass along the way, obediently cozying himself up in a couch-cushiony corner. "I actually do a lot of my work from the van, so it's /close/ to home, at least. The manufacturin' parts. Wouldn't wanna do it in here on account of fumes'n such. Ain't got the ventilation set up right for all the glues an' plastics an' whatnot. The rest is...well, most of the point is me goin' out t'meet folks. I don't...tend to run into /too/ much trouble out'n about for work, at least, m'self." "I've been having responsibility most of the day," Lucien answers with a soft laugh, "a little fun should not hurt, either." He continues his not-quite-sitting, though he relaxes down against the side of the couch when Micah is shepherded to sit on it, hip tucked up against its arm and his hand dropping to drape against its back. His fingers trail downwards, when Micah settles into the corner, brushing down against the back of his neck with a continued lazy-light touch of warmth, subtle-soft, more habitual than anything else. "What kind of fun?" It's directed at Parley, watching him take his seat through a long fringe of half-shut lashes, gaze tipped downwards towards his juice. One side of his mouth curls up; he draws in a sloooow breath. "-- Lack of adequate ventilation does not seem to stop Jackson and his turpentine. Perhaps," he suggests to Micah, "you are just more attached to your braincells than he. Though you do share a room, don't you?" His eyes open slightly wider, cut over towards the room in question before returning to present company. "Not too much is still more than none," is a touch more serious. "It's funny what you can get used to, isn't it?" "Mmh." Parley murmurs across the rim of his glass, "The responsible kind, I suppose. As I'm not /outside/ of my schedule." And only after a pause: "...Funny also, how differently we acclimate," Parley agrees quite a few decibels lower in volume, like he's musing it semi-selfward, eyes raising for a moment to the ceiling, then zagging in the direction Lucien glances. By the time his eyes return to his host and fellow company, he's breathing out, "From one person to the next." Either half jumps from Micah, for a long thoughtful moment and ends, absently, on Lucien. -- then /back/ to Micah, "Could you work from the rooftop? It's nothing if not ventilated." "No, a little fun shouldn't hurt," Micah agrees, with another smile sent Lucien's direction. The brush against his neck is certainly unexpected, though not unpleasant. Equally habitual is his gentle press back into the contact, like a cat responding to petting. "Well, it's only a /little/ bit of turpentine. An' he tends t'keep windows open, so it isn't /that/ bad. The materials I work with are pretty heavily regulated. Had t'get very precise ventilation installed. Inspections an' all that goodness." He flutters a hand dismissively at the thought of all that process. "He doesn't always paint in there anyhow. He's out here more often than not." A slight nod of his head in the direction of the room serves to confirm Lucien's look. "Responsible fun?" Micah repeats, chuckling again. "That sounds like part of a PSA. Alcohol commercial or somethin'." He shrugs, looking roofward at Parley's suggestion, as if that gaze were helpful in finding a response. "Prob'ly could. Just would have t'haul a lot of stuff up there. Might not be the pleasantest space t'share for anybody else, dependin' on what needed doin'. So I usually just default back t'the van. I mean, it is /set up/ specifically as shop workspace. For the stuff I don't have t'go to the actual /shop/ for. Metal...sparks'n whatnot." He flashes his fingers out in starburst patterns as if to help illustrate. Sparks! Dangerous stuff. Lucien's lips twitch again, at Parley's answer, very slight hitch-curl upwards and then a return to neutrality. He sips at his juice glass, and then lowers it to semi-rest along one thigh. "The rooftop," he echoes, "seems rather a focal point for your building's /social/ life. Though I suppose this /apartment/ does, too," has somewhat of a wryer curl of smile. "-- Working there seems a solution for a problem that does not exist," is an absent murmur somewhat in lazy agreement with Micah's words, "-- have you had a /need/ for more space than your van? It seems a rather fitting locale, to me. /High/ mobility service. And if you are running into few problems in the city--" He hums a soft sound. /Also/ like petting a cat, the continued trace of his fingers against Micah's neck seems distracted-thoughtless, a light lazy curl of motion. "-- Though I admit to finding it somewhat surprising, that the violence has touched you so little. Some people seem to be," and here his eyes drift back towards the bedroom door, "a /lightning/ rod for chaos. And those around them so often get caught up in the storms." "Ah?" Parley's eyes move from Micah and then Lucien, as either speak, then lower to following the strokes of Lucien's kitty-petting hand over Micah's neck. "--I don't think I'd realized how much effort would have had to go into it," he swirls his orange juice, one eyebrow triggered upward, eyes remaining half-mast. Micah's state is assessed with a single up and down sweep, as though seeking to confirm no... visible... sign that /violence/ has touched him. Quieting to hear what Micah may respond. "Yeah, we kinda just...spill out wherever 'round here," serves as Micah's assessment, accompanied by a nod in agreement. "An' it's /outside/ up there without bein' /public/ outside. Safe space for folks like Dusk an' the twins. But I don't really need a lotta space, no. I get deliveries of oversize stuff at a little storage unit, do the assembly there, haul those things in the trailer. Power chairs an' standers an' the like. I don't do quite as much with that stuff, though." His gaze stays focused down at the glass in his hand, watching the occasional drop of condensation bead on its side and trickle downward. His posture has shifted to lean slightly toward Lucien at the continued contact. "Don't guess people find much reason t'be fussin' at me when I'm out on my own," he concludes in a softened tone, a faint flush creeping along his cheekbones. "Folks around me get caught up in more'n enough trouble, though." "Safe space," Lucien says in quiet echo, "gods know people could use more of /those/. It's hardly just the -- lack of exposure, though, is it? This building has --" His eyes drift away again. Towards the bedroom, then lower. He sips long and slow at his juice; slow, as well, the very subtle-faint trickle of warmth from his touch pulls just a hint more strongly. "-- Your work does not lend itself to much controversy. /You/," he adds with a small laugh, "do not lend yourself to much controversy. There are far easier targets for trouble than -- goodness, can you imagine the publicity?" His lips twitch, slightly. "Attacking an amputee who works to help disabled children and wounded vets regain their mobility, just /try/ to spin that into a blow for /right/ on either side and you will have found yourself the greatest PR person in the city. -- Micah," he says, and here his tone drops solemn though there is a glimmer of laughter in his green eyes, "it might almost be your civic duty to find some bigots to be attacked by. Surely you can find someone who thinks you a race traitor?" Parley is quietly finishing his juice, as the two other men interact, watching through his lashes how Micah leans into Lucien's touch, how Lucien continues yet to stroke him. "You make it sound like everyone here is endlessly under fire," he says it amused, "...Mh. Well. Maybe some are," while Lucien looks again towards the bedroom, Parley is looking at him, "Though perhaps it's less that there are lightning rods and more that," he pulls himself to his feet, "there are storms." To Micah. He smiles, lowering his head in a nod, "Thank you for the drink. You're kind." He heads towards the sink to rinse out his glass. Micah nods, huffing a soft sigh. "Would that there were more places, ain't no kinda..." he shuts himself down with another little shake of his head, filling his mouth with a swallow of juice instead of more words. He stays quiet for a moment, just appreciating the comforting touch from Lucien. "Oh, hon. That was tried already. Remember that reporter as decided to take some serious factual license when I got knocked about by the crowd, when the mayor got almost-shot? I did get that retraction, though. Tiny, tiny retraction on page nobody-cares." The corner of his mouth twitches upwards. "Some folks more than others kind of /are/, Parley. If they dare t'go /outside/." His eyes track Parley's movement to the kitchen. "You're welcome, hon. Ain't nothin' t'offer a neighbour a cold drink in this heat. ‘Specially with as neighbourly as folks are in this buildin'. Pleasant surprise, actually. I was told not t'expect as much up here." 'Here' being the cold (ha) North, more than likely. "Not everyone," Lucien says in gentle-mild agreement with Micah's answer -- though mild as his tone is, his eyes are rather /sharper/ on the other man through both Parley's reply and through Micah's aborted first sentence afterwards, "-- Only the ones who /are/." His touch continues, the empathic trickle gentle-soft though his fingers shift more to kneading, a light-lazy massage. He exhales a slow breath through his nose, not much character to mark it either laugh or sigh, "-- lightning rods do not tend to attract very much in /fair/ weather, do they?" "-- Goodness, that was you?" The reminder of the article draws a smile to his face. "That --" His eyes lower. "Was just before I met you." There's a small curl at the corners of his mouth; it fades soon. He looks up, watching Parley rinse his glass with bland thoughtfulness. "He is kind. There seems a good deal of /that/ to go around here, too. Perhaps New York is not all it is reputed to be. For all," another brief twitch of lips, "its storms." "Mh," Parley, at the sink, puts the cup in the drying rack and dries off his hands on a towel in quick neat little swipes as Lucien and Micah once more find agreement. "I'm sorry," he raises a hand from the depths of the towel to demonstrate acquiescence. "I hadn't meant it in that way. Only that not everyone standing by," he isn't looking at anyone, just towards the window vacantly, "is burned for their proximity." When his attention returns, it contrasts with Lucien's blandness with something sharply contemplative, eyes moving back to the impromptu massage now occurring. "--anything can be found in this city. I imagine kindness is no different. It's just..." The side of his mouth is pulling off again - not quite turning up. "rare." He scrubs a hand through his not-yet-dry hair, taking a handful of towel where it hangs off either shoulder, "It was nice meeting you - mh. Lucien." Difficult to use honorific when introduced informally. He'd been heading towards the door up to this point, and now slips through it. The lip-twitch pulls into a fuller sort of grin, though it is a less than mirthful one. "Dunno. I think folks here are nice enough...I mean, aside from the /specific/ form of crazy that's been goin' 'round, but I don't think that's unique to here. Just...in higher and more obvious concentrations." He pats at the air as Parley apologises. "Oh, no need for that, honey. Nobody's offended...just these things always make me think of the twins an' Dusk an' Ian an' everythin'." Micah takes to his feet when Parley moves toward the door. "It was good t'see you. Thanks for bringin' the pan. I'll let Jax know it's back. Have a good night!" He doesn't manage to reach the door before Parley to open it for him, though that seems to have been his intention. With a shrug, he returns to his seat. "You're welcome t'stay for dinner," he informs Lucien, with a genuine smile this time. "'Specially seein' how we don't know when Desi'll be gettin' back." Lucien's hand drops to his glass when Micah moves away, slipping away from the other man to curl loose around it. He takes a slow drink, draws a slow breath, and through this first half of Parley's answer he just considers -- his glass. Very thoughtfully. "Rare," he echoes, on the second, turning this one word over softly, and, a little less softly as Parley makes his way out: "Enchanté." Now he /does/ actually sit, where he had not been before, slipping around to take a seat beside Micah properly, this time. "You have so many interesting neighbors." It's quiet murmur, too, soft and without much in his expression to lend it inflection. "-- It /has/ been a while since I ate," he acknowledges in consideration of this offer, and then, still thoughtful: "You are. Kind." "It is a...rather unique set that we have here, true," Micah agrees, though his tone is clearly sincere, fond even. "Oh good, I'll get to it shortly. Jax is supposed t'be home kind of soon?" A hint of red brightens his features once more at the repeated compliments. "S'just dinner. Was plannin' on makin' bunches either way. You got any dietary restrictions?" He fetches his glass again for another sip of orange juice, looking thoughtful for a moment. "How have you been doin'?" Soon turns out to be rather /imminently/; Parley has barely slipped out when the door is unlocking again, opening again. Jackson looks tired, though in a kind of default end-of-workday way rather than anything heavier; there's a relieved sigh when he slips out of his shoes at the door, still more of one when he sheds his bag and /starts/ to peel off his shirt -- then stops, squinting over to soon replace tired look with a quick-warm smile. "Oh! Oh, hey, I didn't know we got company I should /uh/ prob'ly keep my /clothes/ on /Hi/. S'Parley just here, I saw in the hall --?" his tone is light; he flits over towards the couch to lean over its back and deposit a kiss on the top of Micah's head. "-- Hi Luci," chirruped bright, suffices instead of kiss for Lucien. "Unique." Lucien echoes this with a very faint smile. He doesn't return his hand to its absent kitty-pettings although he does resettle once he is seated, the backs of his fingers brushing up absently against Micah's arm for a return of gentle-light warmth. He tucks his glass between his knees, his other hand retrieving an epi-pen from his pocket; his smile skews a little wryer. "I do, actually. If you ever wish to kill me, sesame is a rather /quick/ route. Other than that, though --" The injector vanishes again. He tips his head back against the couch when the door opens, watching Jax's entry. "It is your house," he says, "I certainly shall not hold you to any high level of /propriety/ in this heat. Your neighbor was here, yes. Parley. He had a pan." A huge smile overtakes Micah's face when Jax enters. "Hiii, hon! You're home a little earlier than I expected. An' yeah, we had a Parley an' a Lucien, now just a Lucien. Parley dropped off a pan." He has a sudden, short fit of giggles. "I don't think anyone's gonna /complain/ about you losin' the shirt, honey, go ahead." An arm snakes up, hand brushing against the back of Jax's neck as kisses are delivered. "How was your day?" Lucien's arm stroking combined with Jax kisses stretches Micah's smile farther, if that is possible. "Wasn't plannin' no sesame, so that should be fine. No killin' guests." "-- Was that all he wanted?" Jackson asks, and though his tone's still light for a moment his brow furrows; a faint edge of concern slips into his expression. He pushes it back in favour of another smile, straightening. "Oh -- yeah, m'last appointment cancelled on account of too hot to leave the house," he says wryly, "let alone sit around for days dealin' with painful itchy skin -- I gotta admit /I/ wouldn't want to be healing no ink in this weather, s'sticky-itchy enough /already/." He pushes back from the couch, flushing slightly though he /does/ peel off his shirt -- it's kind of /clinging/ from his walk back from the subway. "Y'staying for dinner?" He's drifting off to the bathroom, pushing the door halfway-shut as the sink runs. RINSING. Sweat. Because blech. "Should he have wanted something else?" Lucien's eyes drift over Jackson when he peels the shirt off, and follow him through to the bathroom -- perhaps he is /ogling/. It's a very detached sort of ogle if so, his expression quiet-impassive. He finishes the last of his juice, returning the empty glass to rest between his knees. "Micah invited me -- if that is alright," he demurs, "I came to collect my sister from your sons but they appear to have vanished." "I think so? He had a glass of orange juice an' left," Micah elaborates, gesturing at the door. That's the way he went. "Yeah, I don't think I'd wanna be all bandage-y right now if I could avoid it, either. Sweaty bandages, ick." He might be watching Jax for a bit as he walks away, too. An arched-eyebrow look is sent Lucien's way at the demurring. As if invitations would be retracted in this household, really... "Oh --" Jackson's voice drifts back a little distractedly. "He -- I might could -- want to talk to you about --" The water runs longer. He returns in short order, a little bit /cooler/, a little bit less sweat-sticky. He drapes himself down over an arm of the couch to lie, half over the arm and half melted onto Micah's lap. "/Course/ you can stay, honey-honey -- um." His nose crinkles apologetically, "-- I don't know what we're planning tonight but s'about time to whip /somethin'/ together. Kids vanish around here a lot," he adds, half apologetic and half amused. "Want I should GPS tag ‘em all?" "That might be useful," Lucien acknowledges with a brief-small curl of smile. He leans forward, setting his empty glass down on the table. He watches Jackson return with much the same detachment that he watched him arrive, and his eyes slip half-lidded when Jax drapes himself across the couch. He shifts -- hooks one hand beneath a shoulder to pull Jackson a little /further/, towards his lap and Micah's both. His fingers trail down against Jax's collarbone after this, with the same light flush of calm he had given Micah before. "-- Might want to talk to him, or to me?" Oh, it's a lap-Jax! Micah deposits his juice glass on the table to free his hands up for tummy rubs. Conveniently rather cold-handed tummy rubs, no less! "Want to talk...?" he questions, looking a little puzzled. Food talk distracts him quickly, however. "I got food-makin' tonight. All kinds of fresh eggplants comin' in, so I was gonna do the stuffed peppers with the garbanzo-eggplant stuff in? I figured out how t'do 'em stovetop-wise when I was livin' in this apartment without an oven, so don't gotta heat things up overmuch, either. Cooks quick, besides." One hand continues tummy rubs while the other steals a Jax arm to place a kiss on the inside of the wrist. "Can we GPS tag /everyone/? That would be super-handy. I did already volunteer tryin' to track phones, but Lucien insisted this is a non-worryin' kind of missin'." A delighted little laugh comes at the sudden delivery of Jax further across laps. "Though it might be hard t'cook if I'm busy bein' a cushion. Not that I'm complainin'. Just...one or the other at a time, y'know." "You're a /real/ good cushion, though," Jackson's words come out in kind of a happy /purr/. It's a purring that /continues/, a soft happy rumble-hum in his throat with the (cold!) belly rubs. "-- about Parley," he sort-of-explains, although /mostly/ he is too busy pressing lightly up into the contact, /stretching/ catlike to make for a more accessible tummy. His head turns to the side, cheek bopping lightly against Lucien's hand when /Lucien/ initiates contact, his smile contented-soft. "-- Oh-oh, that sounds kinda great. The less heat the better." His fingers uncurl, brushing against Micah's cheek when that kiss comes. "-- Though I'm kinda happy just. Here. You're /cold/ can we just keep the cold. And tummy rubs and --" His cheek continues to press to Lucien's hand. "-- How've /you/ been, hon?" "He does rather make you look like a /delightfully/ good cushion," Lucien is forced to admit with a small laugh when Jackson continues to /cat/ all over the couch. The wash of warm-happy continues, his fingers tracing up against Jackson's neck to his head, fingertip skimming in light outline of the chimaera decorating Jax's skull. "That does sound wonderful. If there is anything I can do to assist, I -- am somewhat capable in a kitchen." His eyes lower at the question, though his small smile remains. "I --" Whatever answer he was going to give to this is cut off by the quiet vibrating of his phone. He answers it with bland distraction: "Salut?" -- And then with a slowly deepening frown, "-- What is going on?" His head tips down, and, apologetic, he extricates himself from beneath Jackson with one last trail of fingers against skull. Phone lowering for a moment, he excuses himself with a quiet: "-- forgive me, I will be just a minute." His fingers touch lightly to Micah's once more before he removes himself to the fire escape, heading up half a flight to sit and continue his conversation. "I oughtta add that to the resume. Skilled as furniture," Micah jokes when he is declared a good cushion by /two/ people, chuckling a bit. Purrs are answered with a contented smile. "I'm willin' t'sit here s'long as y'want. Just gotta get up when people start gettin' t'where they're hungry." And he does continue happily Jax-petting. "Oh...what about Parley?" His eyes follow as Lucien's fingers trail along Jax, continuing up to his face when he speaks. "Shouldn't need much by way of help once things actually get started." He pauses when Lucien's call comes in, waving and nodding as he excuses himself to complete his conversation. "Don't let him undersell himself he's pretty much like a god in the kitchen," Jackson counters Lucien's words with a shake of his head. "But Micah cooks delicious /too/ so y'should jus' sit back an' relax." Like he is doing. Melt. Oooze. There's a very faint glimmer lighting beneath his skin at the /dual/ petting, though it winks out when Lucien's phone rings and he starts to extricate himself. "S'everything al--" he starts to ask, but then just lets the man go finish his conversation. He turns his gaze up to Micah instead, one hand lifting to brush fingers against the other man's cheek. "I --" His brow furrows; for a moment he looks almost guilty. "S'probably a conversation for not-having-guests-over-time," he admits with a small dip of his head. "Y'should put tummy rubs on your resume, too. /All/ the cats would hire you." "Him, too? Between the pair of you cooks, now I'm intimidated." Micah hides his face behind /Jax's/ hand, lifted up by that wrist again, like a shy child hiding behind a parent. He peeks back out when his hiding place starts to /glow/, however. "Mmn. One of /those/ conversations," he replies to Jax's explanation. "Not t'worry, it can wait." He pats Jax's hand, returning it to his side. Speaking of tummy rubs, his free hand had been continuing in that effort. The other hand, now empty as well, gathers cool condensation from his glass before joining in again. "I get the feelin', were I t'put that on a resume, it might be taken somewhat the wrong way." His lips pull into a playful smirk. "I love your food," Jackson /smooshes/ his hand down against Micah's face when Micah hides it. His hand curls in against Micah's side when the tummy rubs continue, though, and for a while there is only quiet. Soft-hummy-purring, a boneless relaxing beneath the rubbing. "Mmm. /Would/ have to be kinda a specific kinda job I guess," he eventually answers with a crooked smile of his own. "But I bet there's people. Who would benefit so much. From a tummy-rubber of their very own." Somewhere in that stretch of quiet, Lucien's conversation concludes. He drifts back down the stairs, slips back into the apartment from the fire escape. His expression is much the same -- calm-neutral, carrying its typical heavy dose of /reserve/. Perhaps a touch more flushed than before. For a moment he stands near the windows, watching the other men as he slips his phone back into his pocket. Eventually he rejoins them; his fingertips trail up against Jackson's stomach, against Micah's fingers, against his arm, before he lowers back down into his seat, his eyes closing and a small smile curling across his lips. There's sweat beading light, across his forehead, across his upper lip; his tongue swipes briefly to /lick/ the latter clean. "Perhaps," he suggests lightly, "you might save your eggplant and let me take you out to eat. Somewhere," he says wryly, "with air conditioning." "Hm, well, if you say so. Still a little intimidated," Micah reiterates with a tiny giggle. "Can I have a professional tummy rubbin' job? Gosh, that sounds like a way t'spend a workday." He traces his fingernails in wobbly spirals along Jax's skin. "Everythin' okay?" he asks of Lucien, looking up from his ministrations when the other man returns from the fire escape. The reestablishment of contact draws his eyelids closed as he lets his head fall back against the couch cushions behind him. "Uh-oh. Did I scare you off my cookin' or are you just meltin' with the no AC? 'Cause I'm perfectly happy t'cook." "Everything --" Jackson starts to ask, but quiets when Micah asks the same thing. He just smiles at the fingers trailing against him, a brief shimmer-glow of light following the path of fingers to leave a glowing trail against his skin that soon fades. "We don't mind the cookin' but I sure can't fault you for wanting to get somewhere cool. -- Micah's takin' up work as a professional tummy-rubber," he adds, "in case y'wanted. To let him get some practice in." Lucien's eyes stay closed, the slight flush lingering in his cheeks. The press of warmth that comes from his contact to Micah, this time, is stronger, a firmer flutter-rush of /happy/ as Lucien pulls in a slow breath. "Everything is --" His head shakes; in contradiction to this, his smile curls a little wider. "I may be melting. Indulge me? You all have fed me often enough I would be glad to return the favour." Micah's smile creeps wider again at the glowy trails on Jax's skin. One hand keeps up circle-tracing while the other makes wiggly fingers in Lucien's direction at Jax's suggestion. "Not t'worry. I'm a professional," he assures, managing to keep an even tone, but not a straight face. His breath catches at the sudden rush from Lucien, a flush of his own appearing readily on his face and neck. "Well, we certainly can't be havin' our guests melt. People stop comin' over once word gets out about such things, y'know." "S'pose I should put my shirt back on." Jackson sounds quite reluctant about this. "-- Or, well, a /new/ shirt the last one don't smell none too great." He glances up at Micah's face with that catch of breath, a curious look flicked between the other two. "S-sure, we can go out somewhere," he says slowly, and there's a small smile hooked up onto his face even though his tone is somewhat uncertain. "Y'sure you're alright, honey-honey? I don't -- you're not usually --" He stops, catches himself, flushes deep. He wriggles up, slightly, to brace one hand against the couch cushions, stretched out over Micah so that in lieu of finishing this sentence he can peck Lucien on the cheek and then settle back down. Sprawl. "-- That part," Lucien remarks, when Jackson mentions the shirt; his fingers move to play lightly against Jax's chest, tracing down against his sternum, "/is/ a shame." The touch -- for both the others, now -- comes with a fierce rush of happy there, too, deep and exhilarating and this time twined in with no small dose of pleasure. "Not usually --?" His eyebrows raise. "-- Come. I've texted Desirée. If she returns she can text me back." Jax's shirt announcement earns a pouty face. While he's still sprawled over his lap, Micah takes advantage of the opportunity to walk tickly fingers along his ribs. His eyes flit closed again for a moment with yet another rush from Lucien, his colour deepening and hints of red showing along the tips of his ears. "She can...mmn...stay with the twins for a bit if they happen get back before we do," he agrees quietly. Jackson closes his eyes, breath shivering out of him as the glow returns, soft and spreading warmly through him; from inside rather than out it backlights his wealth of tattoos to an oddly stained-glass effect. "Oh --" For a moment his thoughts are derailed but eventually he looks up at the others again. Looks up at Lucien again. It's a little shy, a little /apologetic/, when he finishes: "-- happy." This startles a laugh from Lucien; his eyes widen, slightly, the look he gives Jackson surprised. The surge of feeling escalates, a sudden deep /thrill/ of rush fed again to both the others. He leans down towards Jackson, upside-down from Jackson's position laid against Micah's lap; bending down, he touches his lips to Jackson's, soft but lingering as the surge of pleasure ratchets higher. "-- We show it different ways," he says quietly, when he straightens, the smile on his face replaced with a thoughtful expression, "but I imagine --" There's a small tug at the corner of his mouth, "that you see me happy about as often as I see it in you." He stands, offers a hand -- to either or both of them in standing. "Shall we?" Micah has settled into just watching Lucien with Jax, teeth pressed against his lower lip and blush not going anywhere any time soon. It takes him a little longer than usual to participate in the conversation. "Not...no. I don't think it's actual happy that's different. Just...bein' a bit more demonstrative than usual." His smile returns now that his lip has been freed again. "Not that that's a complaint." Perish the thought. Once Lucien stands, Micah supplies an arm, slipped under Jax's shoulders to help lever him back up from his sprawly position. Jackson's breath catches again, against Lucien's mouth, this time. The glow inside him deepens, warmer. He returns the kiss softly, deeply flushed when Lucien breaks off. His posture shifts, turning in towards Micah slightly for a moment but then leaning against that arm, reaching for Lucien's hand, using both these props to pull himself back to his feet. "-- Yeah," he agrees with this slowly, squeezing Lucien's hand tightly. "S'pose that might be true." His smile returns, brighter than before. "Right. OK. Shirt. Then food." /He/ offers Micah a hand now that he is the only one left sitting. Like a chain of standing-up-help. "Mmm." Lucien's lips twitch up into a brief ghost of a smile. "Some days," he says, "don't you just want --" His eyes lower slowly, gaze first flicking over Jax and Micah both. "-- Yes," is all he finishes, smile easing back into place. "Food." Jax's hand is extremely /handy/ for standing purposes as Micah is slightly lightheaded. He presses a kiss to the back of Jax's hand before releasing him to fetch a shirt (alas). He also provides Lucien with a /hug/ that might be a way of getting a few more seconds of leaning time. But also is just for hugging, while such things are still thematically appropriate. "Definitely," he answers simply. "Um...food."