ArchivedLogs:Relating

Relating
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Steve	2016-02-16 "That, I believe, is why we do not struggle /alone/."
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Garden Plot - Lower East Side
The smell instantly changes here to something greener, herbally sharp and mulchy; paved walkway drifts at angles through raised multi-tiered garden beds, reaching varying elevations of a mere foot above the ground to three feet, each held up by retaining walls of leftover stone from the houses, riddled here and there with spiraling mosaic dragons. While companion flowers of red geranium, fuchsia bee balm, violet petunias, pastel-and-white sweet pea, are sprinkled throughout and alongside each box, it's primarily vegetables; between tall eerie trellis spires of fixed animal bones, clung over with curlicues of lush vine sheets and okra, delicate netting protects lower levels of melon and tomato, kale and tomatoes and a number of other edible foods, with a separate box of sand-loving root vegetables sending up frondy foliage for carrot and onion and garlic. To one side, a compost heap lets of faint shimmers of heat and steam, to the other, a strongly scented bed of myriad herbs, both medicinal and otherwise, flanked on one side by a large healthy swell of coneflower. With a shed nearby housing gardening tools, the whole of it is watered by a network of hidden hosing that gives off faint tickles of mist when in use, ribboned with rainbows, and there are structures in place to suggest the garden can be enclosed in winter months. It's a chilly evening, crisp and windy outside -- but in here, not so much. The paneled walls of the garden-turned-greenhouse trap warmth quite well; even after sundown its pleasant in among the greenery. There are pale motion-sensor lanterns flooding the path through the wintertime vegetabes with light; off at the back of the enclosure, far away from the sunroom door, one solitary figure is perched on one of the rocky retaining walls. Lucien is dressed simply enough -- dark well-tailored jeans, a soft green sweater over a grey button-down, black leather jacket currently hanging open and unbuttoned. He has a tablet resting on his knees, a slim silver flask held in one hand, one forefinger tapping against its side as his eyes scan the tablet's screen. A silhouette enters the sunroom from deeper in the house: tall, broad-shouldered, carrying a mug in one hand and a book in the other. Their movement shifts abruptly, still for a moment. Then relaxes. Goes to the door and slips out into the garden. Steve is wearing a red, white, and blue plaid flannel, a bright yellow t-shirt with a dancing cartoon T-rex skeleton over the word 'FOSSIL' spelled out of bones, and much-mended blue jeans. He's also tugged a soft fleece throw to drape over his shoulders, patterned after his iconic shield. "{Good evening.}" Quietly, in rustic continental French, as he picks his way across to Lucien. "{Might I get you anything -- a drink, a snack...?}" Lucien glances up with a slight widening of eyes, flicking at his screen at the sound of approaching footsteps. "{Good evening.}" A quick small smile flits across his face, amusement lighting his bright green eyes as he looks over Steve's shirt. Then glances quickly to the book in the other man's hand before looking back up to Steve's face. "{A snack? Oh, goodness. I missed dinner, didn't I.}" He doesn't sound /overly/ distressed, admittedly. "{Please tell me there are leftovers.}" Steve's mug smells of rich, spicy hot cocoa, and his library book is /Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell/. "{If you didn't catch dinner elsewhere, then I'm afraid so. Jax did cook, though, so we've plenty left over -- rosemary potatoes, ginger kale, herb baked tofu, venison.}" He smiles faintly, coming to a stop a couple of steps away, half-sitting, half-leaning on the retaining wall. "{Fresh batch of cocoa, too.}" Lifting the mug by way of illustration. "{How are you doing?}" His phrasing of /that/ is strangely formal -- maybe just an artifact of his age, but it has the effect of making it more a question and less a platitude. "Oh." There's a softly pleased lift in Lucien's tone, a faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes as they light on Steve's book. His hand lifts briefly, fingers extending -- half towards the book, then dropping back to his lap. "{Oh, that one is such a perfect delight.}" He shifts where he sits on the wall, angling towards Steve. "{I have been --}" There's a brief hesitation, his eyes dipping down to the wall -- eying a brightly coloured glass dragon mosaic embedded in the stone -- then lifting to Steve again. "{Busy. Not as busy as I would like, I'm afraid. Have you been well?}" Steve looks down at the book, unfolds it from where it had been half-hidden by his substantial forearm. Smiles wider. "{Shane's recommendation, and I am enjoying it a great deal. So very dry, and yet silly.}" He follows Lucien's gaze to the mosaic, his smile softening. "{I am doing well. Nervous about starting my new...old job.}" His shoulders rise and fall once beneath the blanket, his expression inscrutable. "{How is it you would prefer to stay busy?}" "{Shane recommended it to you?}" The warmth in Lucien's tone grows. "I am glad that he --" His head shakes briefly. "{Her way with words is so refreshing, no?}" He shuts the screen off his tablet, resting one hand on the stone and leaning back to brace his weight on his arm. "{Finding work has just proved more challenging, since the plague.}" His tone is light, at least, hand lifting in a small shrug before he lifts his flask to take a sip from it. "{I will be well glad when people are past the threats of homelessness and hunger,}" the flash of his teeth is thin and small and just a touch tired, "{-- and can indulge in spending their resources on leisure once more.}" One forefinger taps slowly at the side of his flask again. His head tilts, slightly, as he looks at Steve. "{Is it soon, now?}" "{Refreshing, yes,}" Steve agrees easily. "{I have been reading so much history that /any/ break from academic prose would be welcome, but this is a world apart. Speaking of which, if you have any recommendations -- fiction or non-fiction -- I keep a list.}" He lifts his cocoa for a long pull. Nods slowly, meditatively. "{Jax and I went to see 'Wicked' on Sunday. A spectacular show, but...well, it's not so strange for /me/, seeing empty seats in a Broadway theatre...}" He sounds a little distant. Shakes his head. "{I have faith in the tenacity of New York's passion for the stage. And in your talent, though I've never /properly/ seen you perform.}" His smile fails him now, though. "{They want me to come in for orientation and physicals Thursday and Friday.}" He frowns slightly, studying the glossy plastic jacket of the book in his hand. "They accepted me back, no questions asked, as a consultant. {Meaning I wouldn't need to follow orders.} Is it silly that I find their agreeableness disturbing?" "{Recommendations? In this genre or any other?}" Lucien's fingers curl tighter around his flask, his eyes travelling past Steve to fix on one of the vegetable beds. "{A year ago the show I was in was routinely selling out. The plague ended the run of my next production early. Now half the theatres on Broadway do not even /have/ a show running and the ones that do --}" A small shrug. "{It will pick back up, I am sure. But in the meanwhile auditions have been few and far between.}" He takes another drink from his flask, longer, this time. There's a slight press of his lips, breath pulled in slowly at Steve's explanation. "Silly? Mmm." His hand seesaws in the air, the liquid in his flask sloshing quietly with the motion. "{Bold, on their part. They are making no pretense of how thoroughly they are prying into your life.} I suppose you can read that how you like, but I would not find it a /comfort/." "{Any genre -- I like to cast a wide net in sampling what I've missed.}" Steve's brows wrinkle, his gaze only following Lucien's briefly to the vegetable bed before flicking back to the other man's face. "{That is unfortunate, and I hope it will not bring your family too much more hardship. I understand the economic situation of this era was dire even before the plague.}" His mouth twists to one side as he corrects himself, "{/Plagues./}" Sips his cocoa again, nods. "{Maybe they mean it as a gesture of openness. Or maybe they just thought it would insult my intelligence to pretend they were /not/ surveilling me so closely.}" He swishes the mug and inhales the faint wisps of steam that still rises from it. "Either way, it emphasizes why they /themselves/ need to be watched." "Our finances have weathered worse." Lucien's tone is light, a faint upward tug at the corners of his lips. "{/Matt's/ job is stable enough. Desi could have had better timing for college, admittedly. Failed her senior year, perhaps, if she were more considerate.} Alas. {I pick up alternate income, still, where I can.}" He shifts against the stone wall, one leg hooking up to rest his heel against a small outcropping of rock. "{Perhaps. I could not say. I suppose I am a pessimist by nature. I feel disinclined to favour the government with such a charitable interpretation as that first. It /would/ have been an insult to pretend, though.}" Steve's last comment draws a soft laugh from him. "Who watches the -- tsss. I suppose I ought to recommend you read /Watchmen/. Certainly people will be referencing it /at/ you, soon enough." Steve shakes his head again. "I am at once amazed by how many people go to college now and dismayed at the expense. I cannot imagine that the professors are paid as well as all that." He frowns, more deeply. "{/High school/ teachers certainly are not, at any rate.}" He downs the rest of his cocoa and sets down the mug. "{I do not think you need to be a pessimist to doubt SSR's committment to openesss.} /I/ certainly am not ready to believe that they have turned a new and transparent leaf." From the pocket of his jeans, he pulls a small green notebook. "/Watchmen/, huh? I'm not familiar with it." Untucks the pen from its spiral binding, flips it open, and scribbles in it. "{People may be referencing it at me /already/. For all my reflexes, a lot goes over my head.}" "It is not very good," Lucien says with a touch of regret, "but it is quite iconic." He rests his flask against his knee, squeezing it tightly. "{Xavier's does not exactly pay their teachers richly, no. And college is --}" His breath of laughter is quick and sharp. "{It is alright, though. These days the market for kidneys pays quite handsomely. We will manage.}" His eyes lift again, meeting Steve's as he takes another sip from his flask. "Are you ready to go back there, though? Un-comforting and all?" Steve arches his eyebrows at Lucien. "{You may be the first person in this era who has recommended any piece of media to me without singing its praises. But, I appreciate your candor.}" He closes the notebook and slips it back into his pocket. "{Perhaps I'll read it after /The Hunger Games./}" His shoulders hitch with a silent chuckle, though the faint furrow of his brows is sympathetic. "{I sincerely hope that you will manage without needing to sell any organs. Or that you'll consider me a resource before you consider that option, at least.} Not -- for my organs, though." He chews on his bottom lip for a moment. "{/Ready?/ I think so.} I am..." Smiling again, at last. ".../kind/ of a Gryffindor." "{I imagine people tend to recommend media they /enjoy/.}" Lucien's smile curls a little wider, quick and amused -- though only briefly before it fades with a small twinge at the side of his jaw. "{I certainly have no designs on your organs, I am /quite/ sure you are putting them to better use than the open market would.}" His tone is light, for all that. "{And I am certainly only joking. I have much better ways of selling my body.}" His smile returns easy and warm, in time with a quick chuckle. "-- I /have/ noticed that." Slightly wry. "There are worse things to be." "{I imagine so. People also tend to recommend media they think will help me relate to this era...and to them.}" Steve doesn't sound in any way /upset/ by this observation, though. "I /suspected/ you were joking, but when in doubt, I'd rather take a joke in earnest than the other way around. I've definitely done enough of both." His smile is sheepish now, maybe even a touch embarassed. "{Best of luck in your alternative income hunt, however you sell your...body.}" There's a very slight uncertainty in his tone at the end, the lift of one eyebrow. "{Does that mean something different now than it did seventy years ago in France?}" "{Is it helping you? Relate?}" Lucien's brows quirk upward curiously. A ripple of laughter shakes his shoulders briefly, silent but reflected in the crinkle at the corners of his eyes. "Do you know," the teasing note in his voice is light and not unkind, "I have never been to 1940s France?" "{It is, in most cases.}" Steve's smile curves wider, bright and guileless, as he holds up his current reading material. "{Well, you missed out on a lot of unpleasantness.} But that phrase ah --" His blush is visible even in the poor light. "-- referred to prostitution, generally." There's no answering blush in Lucien's face, just an acknowledging tip of his head. "And still does," he answers easily. "{It pays the bills -- though even there,}" there's a small thin twitch at one side of his mouth, "{somewhat more erratically than before the city collapsed. Far better than teaching high school, still, though.}" He slides off the wall where he has been sitting, shoulders rolling in a slow stretch. "My apologies. I did not intend to cause you discomfort." Steve blinks several times, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. "Oh! I..." He blushes even deeper. "...no. I just thought maybe you were joking. Again." He recovers quickly, though. Only a little hesitant, his voice slightly hushed, "{Is there less social stigma against that, now? Prostitution.}" For some reason, the word rolls off his tongue more easily in French. "{No, not hardly. I mean, do not mistake me, for someone in /my/ position it is hardly the same caliber of risk as there would be if I were less white and less male. For me, perhaps, I chance my reputation, my career. Others less fortunate are in danger of police violence, jail, having their children taken away --}" Lucien shakes his head. "Sex workers are just one on the long list of people society has yet to consider fully human." He pulls in a slow breath, takes another swig from his flask. "{-- But that touches me very little -- these days. The stigma, I imagine, certainly /would/.}" His smile returns, quick and only a little lopsided. "Thankfully," his tone has lightened again, "I am quite good at navigating PR." Steve goes still, his jaw set tight. "{I don't know why that should surprise me.} It doesn't take much, in this era or any other, for people to deny personhood to anyone they don't like." He runs a hand through his hair -- which manages to fall back to its previous state, relatively unmussed. His answering smile to Lucien comes easily enough. "I've noticed /that/ -- which must come in handy with the actual uh...selling. Acting, too." "I don't suppose it ever has taken much." Lucien rubs knuckles against his cheek, screws the cap back on to his flask. Tucks it back into his pocket. "It comes in handy in a lot of life, as it happens. Everyone has their strengths." He picks up Steve's empty mug, lifting it with a small uptick of brows. "{I think I am overdue for my supper. Would you care for a refill?}" "Seems like it ought to be just as easy to push back, but that's always a struggle. Just not always one where /my/ kind of strength helps a whole lot." Steve straightens up with a rueful half-smile, tucking his book back under his arm. "{A refill, yes. That, and I'm just about due for /another/ supper.}" "Well." Lucien's head tips just slightly downward, his smile a touch softer, here. His hand tips out back towards the sunroom in quiet invitation as he straightens his jacket, starts heading back towards the house. "That, I believe, is why we do not struggle /alone/."