ArchivedLogs:Social Conventions

Social Conventions
Dramatis Personae Doug, Hive
In Absentia	2013-02-27 Grumpy mornings.
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Lobby - East Village
Bright and sunny, the lobby of this apartment building is clean and unassuming. Requiring an electronic keycard for entry, the pair of elevators dings cheerfully when one arrives. A small sitting area has bright yellow couches and small coffee tables, though the nearby vending machine is perpetually running out of /something/. Tall windows let in plenty of light during the daytime, and the building maintenance keeps the common areas spotlessly clean. A bank of mailboxes near the sitting area collects mail for the building, a recycling bin right at hand for the unwanted spam. It's edging on towards lunchtime, but that doesn't stop Hive from being in pajamas, groggy, as he tromps out of the elevator into the lobby. Keys jingle in his hand in company, his other holding a small white envelope. He stifles a yawn before scuffing his hand through his mop of black hair. He heads for the mailboxes, using one of the many keys on his bunch to unlock box 403 and pull out a number of envelopes, leaning a shoulder against the boxes as he starts rifling through them. Three go straight in the bin. Another gets a grimace, unopened. One he opens to -- well, still grimace at. He yawns again. Grogginess is the order of the day, apparently, because the elevator goes right back up after Hive exits, arriving in the lobby a minute later to add Doug to those stumbling around the lobby. The blonde looks rough-shod as he comes off the elevator in a pair of sweatpants and a too-small shirt that reads 'Archers are right on target at Winnaweke Camps!' across the chest in faded letters. He yawns as he approaches the mailboxes, his brain a fuzzy mess of images -- wine, Alexandrine, stuffed peppers, more wine. Too much wine. Blackness. There's a white edge to it all that's close to pain pain as he fumbles with his keys, the noise too loud for this early (late?) in the day. The leaning Hive gets a bleary, blood-shot glance, and Doug grunts something that might be a greeting. Hive's eyes narrow sharply on Doug as the teenager nears, a muscle tightening in his jaw. He scoots back, slightly, putting another column of mailboxes in between himself and Doug, and drops his hand to shove the envelopes he holds, all but one, into the pocket of his flannel pajamas. The last envelope he skirts around Doug to slide through the slot of the management's mailbox. He doesn't head out after this, though. He returns to the bank of mailboxes to open the boxes for 304 and 303, too, emptying them both. Something on the top of the pile draws another grimace. Doug doesn't seem to notice the sharp gaze or the seeming avoidance as he opens up the box for 503 and sorts through them. A couple get opened, the blonde scanning them without devoting too much brain to actually processing them -- financial aid offers are pretty much all the same, after all. Another two get stuffed into the waistband of his sweats, and he frowns as he examines a pink notice of a package. A package that was supposed to arrive UPS, damn it. He shuts the mailbox, then, and sorts the rest of it, most of it going into the recycle bin, which means stepping around Hive. It's then that Doug notices the grimace, and he lifts his eyebrows. "That doesn't look like a happy face." "Yeah." Hive's voice is a little scratchy, which only adds to the gruff sound of it. "Usually when I'm feeling a hangover I like to at least have had the fun to earn it. Some day I'm getting Jax to teach me how to farm so I can go be a fucking hermit." He's still scowling at not-his-mail, closing one mailbox and then another. Doug winces, a stab of guilt coming through the white haze. "Yeah...sorry about that," he says, and makes a sincere effort to wall up the misery. "Alexandrine came by last night, wanting to ask my advice on this new guy of hers." He lifts a shoulder. "She brought wine." And they drank it. At least, he's pretty sure it got drunk. He offers a tight line-smile with a sympathetic cant to his eyes. "I bet living out in the country /would/ be nice, for you," he says. "All that noise gone...I bet it'd be relaxing." "Fuck that stupid dipstick," Hive says, and it doesn't even sound angry, just bland and bored, "and fuck the new guy of hers. Living in the country would be great. I don't hear animals nearly the same. I'd go hole up on a farm and never talk to another person again." Doug's eyebrows shoot up at the sudden bland vitriol, and he frowns, rubbing at his face. "That seems kind of harsh," he says. "I mean, you don't have to like her choices, or whatever. But 'fuck that stupid dipstick' is sort of over the top." He pulls his mouth to one side. "I thought you guys were friends." He shrugs. "That sounds really nice, until you're lonely and bored. Then you'd miss people." He glances at Hive, gaze thoughtful. "Maybe /some/ people, anyway." "Nope. Not hardly. Why the fuck do people have such a bullshit obsession with /speaking/ nicely? It doesn't mean a damn thing. S'what you do that counts. Some people," and here Hive is frowning, still, at his stack of neighbor-mail, "are busy working their assess off to make the world a better place, risking their lives to help people, and /that/ fucking cuntwaffle is bringing home the same asshole who assaults their kids. Somehow, though, that makes me the harsh one. Whatever. /I'll/ say fuck a lot, /she/ can make this building an unsafe place for the sake of a fucking lay." The contempt in his tone is not even slightly veiled, although it still is rather too detached to rise into ire. Just disgust. "Wouldn't miss most people," he assures Doug, with a thin slant of smile, "and the ones I would miss would know where my hermit-cave is." "Some people, who aren't privy to the inner workings of the mind, think that speaking nicely is just good manners," Doug says, leaning against the mailboxes and studying his mail idly. "It shows a basic level of respect." He lifts his eyebrows, hangover-fueled irritation creeping in at the further explanation, and the expletive. "I wasn't aware that either Shane or Sebastian had been physically attacked," he says, his tone neutral even as his mind is beginning to sift through the spike of emotional defense of his friend. "And I don't really think that Alexandrine would bring someone like that to /this building/ if she thought there was a chance of that." He slides his eyes over to the telepath, then, his mind stilling for a second. "She's never struck me as stupid." He abandons the subject, then, and rubs at his face. "Any news on those addresses Pete tracked down?" "No, it doesn't. It's just a societal convention. Some of them are useful. Some of them are just so much nancing about not saying what's actually on your mind. I have plenty of respect for lots of my friends and I still say fuck a lot to them. I don't know what that has to do with not being a fucking telepath, you're seeing way more of my mind /now/ than you would if I pretended I /had/ any respect for that stupid toerag. And yes," in the same possibly-bored-bland tone, "Shane /was/ attacked, Sebastian was only harassed into tears. Like he is so many fucking days by so many fucking bigots. And forgive me," Hive says, dryly, "if I don't give /that/ much value to her judgement. She strikes me as dumb as a fucking /post/ and I /am/ privy to the inner workings of the mind." He doesn't answer the last question. He straightens, tucking the whole lot of mail beneath his arm. "Also forgive me if I don't have a lot of patience for apologizing for this bullshit. I care about those kids a whole lot. The whole fucking /world/ treats them like shit, they shouldn't have to worry about running into it here." He's moving away, still at a rather dragging slouch of pace, to head for the stairs. "Okay," Doug doesn't seem in the mood to fight, although there's a flare of white-hot annoyance for his question being avoided. "I guess it's okay to be an intolerant bigot, as long as you're pro-mutant. Guy probably doesn't have a single issue that might be behind it." He doesn't look at Hive again, instead letting his own contempt speak for him as he retreats into the laundry room.