ArchivedLogs:Wild Thing
| Wild Thing | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2017-08-08 "I have no doubt it would be a /solid/ performance." |
| Location
<NYC> High Line - Chelsea | |
Built on a freight rail, the High Line once was a railroad and has been reclaimed as green space in the middle of the city. A park situated high above Manhattan, what was once a rusty industrial wasteland is now a stretch of peaceful space to lounge and relax among grass and flowers and plant life. There are restaurants, ice cream sandwich stands, a beer garden, and the view all along the elevated parkland is unbeatable. Sunny and bright and not too hot, today has lured people out in force. There is a steady stream of foot traffic through the park, New Yorker and tourists alike, relaxing on the benches, taking in a late lunch, simply enjoying the views. The plentiful passersby have left a decent looking bounty of bills in the open case of one small busker -- admittedly the large volume of singles probably means the actual take is less than it seems. Behind the case, Gaétan is just coming off the tail end of a version of "While My Guitar Gently Weeps", clear voice fading out a few bars before the last chords from his bass. With a small thanks to the sparse people who have lingered nearby through the end of the song, he stoops to collect a large pile of the bills, leaving a good handful still in the case as he arranges the rest into a neater stack. There is a magnificently macabre bone wheelchair parked near Gaétan, as far to the side of the path as possible. The occupant of the chair looks perhaps less magnificent, though Matt's sickly appearance is at least in keeping with the visual theme of his ride. The red-and-black NHL cap and bright red t-shirt, adorned with Calvin and Hobbes riding the Millennium Falcon, probably does not help his pallor. There is a book open in his lap, but his eyes have been closed; they open again as the song draws to a close. "{I think,}" he says, after a moment's reflection, in quiet French, "{yours is my favorite version of that song.}" He holds out a steel water bottle for his brother. "I'm no musician, but it seems to me as if some of the most frequently covered songs are also the hardest ones to cover /well/." "{Not that you're in any way biased.}" Still, there's a -- small! -- smile on his face as he tucks the money into a wallet. "{Maybe it's for the challenge of it. Like, if you're covering "Wild Thing" it's a lot harder to show anyone you're good.}" A quick grin as he settles back on his heels."{Which is a different kind of challenge.}" He's plucking at the strings idly, not really starting any new song. Looking over at Matt, teeth picking at a flap of chapped skin on his lower lip. "Do you want anything? Drink? It's not -- /not/ hot." "{What slander is this? I'm the very picture of impartiality.}" Matt's deadpan delivery is somewhat hindered by his, much wider, smile. "{That /does/ seem reasonable. /Now/ I want to hear your rendition of 'Wild Thing.'}" His grip on the water bottle tightens, knuckles growing briefly--improbably--whiter around it before he sets it down beside Gaétan. "Oh, I'm quite alright, merci." His smile does not falter. "I might want to move the chair as the shade migrates, but there's a nice breeze, and I still have tea a-plenty." Gaétan watches the water bottle. Picks it up once Matt has set it down, slowly uncapping it to take a sip. Long, and slow, then hands the bottle back. "You've barely touched the tea." Slowly, building, there's an unfurling that pulls insistently at Matt's awareness, the unsteady pressure of a mutant mind busily -- something. Gaétan is turning back to his case, gathering up the rest of the bills now to shut his bass away. "I'd rock "Wild Thing", though." "I've been a little bit queasy." Matt's smile quirks up higher on one side, rueful. He takes the bottle and returns it to the tote bag hanging over the armrest of his chair. Then his gaze subtly shifts focus to the middle distance. His own powers stretch out to encompass the unknown power as it churns away, exploring its edges with tremendous delicacy without interfering. A small frown creases his brows for a moment, and then is gone. "I have no doubt it would be a /solid/ performance." His eyes refocus on his brother. "{I'm just nervous about the procedure, Gae. It'll pass. Are /you/ alright?}" Gaétan snaps his guitar case locked, but doesn't stand after. He thuds down to sit on the ground, plucking at leaves of a patch of woodsorrel. "Yeah." The pressure grows, pushing up against the enfolding touch of Matt's powers. Grasping -- kind of fumbling, kind of blindly -- at Matt himself in a noticeable but indefinable touch. "{/I'm/ fine. Dinner's totally on me tonight. Wherever you like.}" He works one of the weeds out by its roots. "{Ginger ale included.}" Matt's eyes defocus again, and then close altogether. Inwardly he clamps down, gently but firmly quelling the touch of the unknown power grasping at him. He opens his eyes and studies Gaétan impassively, his powers still maintaining watchful contact. "{Pizza,}" he declares at last, "{and a /lot/ of ginger ale.}" | |
