Logs:Start Big

Start Big
Dramatis Personae Flicker, Steve	2020-04-24 "It's been trying, but we haven't had a single murder all week."
Location <NYC> Chimaera Arts - Dumbo
This is just one of the many abandoned warehouses in DUMBO, and like many of them it has recently changed hands. Unlike most of those, however, it does not have some corporate developer's sign out front promising a transformation into luxury condominiums or a boutique shopping center or the latest concept restaurant. Instead it's marked by a piece of weathered but wildly colorful plywood propped up on a stack of broken pallets, which reads "Chimaera Art Space!" above "chimaera.org" in smaller letters. The warehouse is moderately large and decorated with graffiti art in various styles--some of it recognizable as the work of renowned local street artists. A pair of monstrous scrap metal sculptures, perhaps still works in progress, flank the entrance. The building itself has undergone significant renovation recently, complete with wiring, plumbing, and a modular partitioning system. The grounds, too, have been cleaned up, ramshackle fences torn down and rusting detritus removed in favor of reclaimed (and brilliantly repainted) outdoor furniture ringing an impressively engineered firepit. The city is still working on finding its stride again -- around here just as everywhere else. It's not quite bustling around Chimaera but it does have a good deal more life than in weeks past. There area knot of volunteers in the kitchen preparing meals for household delivery, a cluster of people off in a corner working on sewing brightly-colored masks. Several of the stalls have been set back up for people's personal use. In the center of the room a lanky goateed youth is debating rather fiercely with a tiny blue-haired woman the viability of starting an aquaponic farming system in their co-op house. A blond man with thick matted dreadlocks has not-quite passed out on the couch, bundled up in a thick sweater coat upon which a large black cat has curled up snug and purring. Somewhere through all this, Flicker isn't quite working, yet. Probably he intended to. There are signs he intended to, his tools so-neatly arranged in a cubicle together with a collection of slats and boards and misshapen chunks of reclaimed wood that may one day become a piece of furniture. So far he's succeeded in sort of -- kind of -- making his way through the courtyard, delayed once and twice and once again by concerned or warm or enthusiastically friendly exchanges from the people who have been smoking or playing fetch with a large brindle mutt outside. He's heading back in now, shedding the light canvas jacket he's been wearing to leave him in neat-pressed khakis and a light grey polo, his serpentine tentacle arm swirled blue water-marble shades. Steve has just arrived, still in work clothes -- a smart black poplin button-down and black plainfront slacks, with a pale blue softshell jacket against the intermittent drizzle, all smelling deliciously of coffee. He makes his own round of greetings before heading inside, eyes scanning the warehouse in his habitual way, though shortly he spots Flicker and makes his way toward his friend's stall. "Hey," he says quietly, offering a hug. "What's this going to be?" he asks, his gaze taking in the gathered tools and materials in one glance. Flicker returns the hug tightly, head dropping against the other man's chest for a beat and a long inhale. "How do you always smell so much like temptation?" There's a crooked smile on his face as he straightens, though it drops away sharply as his eyes flick down to the pile of wood. "-- Oh. This." His lips compress. "I've barely even started and I'm already over it. One day, though, it'll be a sideboard. Not today. But some day." He turns toward his table, head shaking slightly. "Any of your coworkers kill anyone yet? I have heard some horror stories from Evolve the past few days." Steve blushes faintly at the question, but his grin is just as crooked. "It's either the freshly roasted fair-trade coffee or my Catholic birthright. Hard to say which." He raises both eyebrows, glancing at Flicker's work-not-yet-in-progress. "Too tired, or just blasé about this particular piece?" He leans lightly on the edge of the work table, arms crossed over his chest. "It's been trying, but we haven't had a single murder all week. Not sure whether that streak will hold without me there on Sunday, though." "I thought guilt was your Catholic birthright?" Flicker looks up from his table, eyes lingering over Steve. "You're falling down on the job because I'm not feeling it." He sets one of the wide boards on the table, lining it up and carefully measuring it. Measuring it again and a third time before he starts marking the wood for cutting. "It's the client I'm over. But it is nice to get back in here again. Starting to feel like I'm heading towards murder if I don't -- take some time to decompress, you know?" "Just feeling guilty," Steve supplies, "which the temptation helps with. Dishing it out doesn't come with the faith -- you have to learn it." He watches Flicker's hand -- and tentacle -- at work. "I do know, and I'm really glad to see you back at this." His eyes do not lift from the board on the table even when he frowns. "Did the client say or do something...untoward?" "Clearly I still have a lot to learn about Catholicism." Flicker's arm telescopes out longer, picking up a mid-sized crosscut saw to start taking one edge off his board. "He's just been hounding me about it all month. Like -- nobody's had anything more pressing to take care of, right?" He shakes his head, focused on his steady even push strokes. "You know," softer, though still unweighted, "it took literal years after I lost my arm before I made so much as a shelf again. I think that was about -- ten percent recovering from the actual injury and ninety percent -- a sort of existential terror I'd never be good at it again." "Getting sincere about Original Sin helps." Steve chuckles softly, looking down. "I'm sorry to hear he's been so difficult, and do hope he's out of your hair soon. And really, what exactly does he imagine that will accomplish?" He falls silent. Swallows hard. "Maybe I could have used a bit more existential terror, because my attempts so far have not been encouraging." The fingers of his left hand tighten against his right arm, his bandaged right hand tucked firmly out of sight. "I just --" He shakes his head sharply. "I haven't even got anything to recover from." "I imagine he thought it would get him his sideboard faster. He's had a lot of time to send snippy emails." Flicker doesn't seem particularly rushed. Careful and measured in his sawing. His brows lift, and he gives the bandaged hand a skeptical glance. "I'm not sure I would recommend the existential terror, necessarily. But -- of course your first results weren't promising. He fused your fingers together. I feel like that takes -- some adjustment?" The hitch of his shoulder is small. "Even if you want to pretend you don't have anything to recover from. On some level you kind of have to learn it all over again." "I suppose so. But even if it did do that, rushing an artist over bespoke furniture seems like a poor choice." Steve's mouth tugs to one side. The rest he does not answer at once. His eyes remain determinedly fixed on Flicker's work. Finally, "I'm not -- pretending." There's no heat in this, not even defensiveness, his tone flat and tired. "It just...I keep thinking I should just..." He wrinkles his nose slightly. "Man up? And just learn it, all over again. I've -- done it before. I know this is different, but..." His shoulders tighten miserably. "It's so hard to even want to pick up a pencil. And even harder to not do it." Flicker's eyes open wider, a startled laugh puffing out of him. He sets the saw down, claw-hand clamping against the wood as he presses his palm to his lips. "Sorry -- sorry. I'm not laughing at you, I --" His head shakes, cheeks bright red. He lifts his arm away from the wood -- it extends longer to reach Steve, the sharp and clawlike tip surprisingly gentle as it plucks lightly at the other man's sleeve. "C'mere. You could drive yourself crazy focusing on all the things you can't do. Sketching is finicky. Why don't we start big instead?" He holds up the saw, brows lifting. Steve looks up, eyes wide and blinking fast at Flicker's reaction. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tilts his head ever so slightly. "I'm going to take your word on that." His cheeks flush as red as Flicker's, but his uncertain smile looks genuine enough. "Alright," he says, following the light pluck of Flicker's mechanical claw. Accepts the tool with his left hand. "But I'll have you know the closest thing I've done to this is splitting firewood."