ArchivedLogs:Sencha and Souchong

Sencha and Souchong
Matters of life and death. And tea.
Dramatis Personae Iolaus, Lucien
In Absentia	2012.11.30 First meetings, over tea.
Location <NYC> Tick-Tock - Greenwich Village
The quiet sound of soft music and softly running water greets the entrants to this tea house, playing from speakers hidden and trickling waterfalls cascading down the rocky fountains by the entryway. The ambiance here is subdued, a quiet escape from the bustle and noise of th city, focused on only one thing: tea. Tea of very good quality. They serve it in over eighty varieties, black and white, green and oolong, rooibos and herbals and mate, flavored and straight up. The seating here comes on cushions or kneeling chairs around low tables, the decorations in earth tones, and the knowledgeable wait staff is always helpful with a recommendation or a snack suggestion to pair with your drink. The sun has long since set, and at this time of year that means the dark brings with it a chill, crisp and biting. Outside, anyway. Inside there is warmth to be found, in the air for sure but also in the steam curling up from a pot of tea. This pot is set on a trivet at one of the low tables, but for the moment nobody is touching it. It is late enough that there are few /left/ in the tea room; a couple tucked at a corner table, an elderly man with a pair of eager young children having cookies and chocolate-tea at its center. And in the back, with their small pot, two men: one tall, blonde, choppy-spikey hair and a quietly /studied/ expression as he looks down at the book in his lap; the other slightly shorter, a knit cap pulled down over his head and his softly ribbed green sweater hanging a little baggy on bony shoulders. They share similarly vivid emerald green eyes, and also share a scone, although this might be accidental; the darker-haired of the pair is reaching over to /pilfer/ a chunk of it off the other's plate, with a wide-easy smile that lights his clean features. The blonde swats his hand, though this seems more reflexive than actually discouraging; he does not look up from his book as he does it and does not actually make any attempt to retrieve the stolen bite. The door to the tea shop opens and closes with a soft tinkle of a metal bell hanging from the handle. The man who walks in is short, dressed in a sharply starched dress shirt the color of a rose, and a pair of grey slacks. Hanging from his belt is a small ID badge, flopped wrong-side facing so that only a plain white back is visible. The man steps forward towards the counter, adjusting the bookbag slung across his chest to keep it from bumping into the counter. He orders lapsang souchong and a small pastry to go with it, leaning against the counter and glancing around the room as he waits for his order, blue-grey eyes dancing from empty table to occupied ones as he surveys his surroundings. At the back table, the dark-haired man is pilfering another broken-off corner of scone. The blonde looks up with a twitch of lips, thinner, flatter, saying something in a quiet tone in French, and if his expression is /irritable/ at least his softspoken baritone is not. His companion rolls bright green eyes, pushes himself up from where he kneels on his cushions. And leans over to swipe the other man's /wallet/, as well, out of the inside of a jacket puddled between their seats, before he makes his way slowly over to the counter. "What's best on scones?" He is asking this of the man waiting for his order, as if perhaps he will have some deep insight. And then, elaborating, "What's best on scones /with/ strawberry sencha?" The man standing at the counter looks up, somewhat surprised. It takes him a moment of a puzzled expression on his forehead before the unexpected words can make their way through his mind. "If you are already having strawberry sencha, strawberry preserves might go well. Or, perhaps, something a little bit more bitter to counter the sweetness. Raspberry?" he says, a brief flashing smile of teeth. "That's what I would do, but I think either would work. I suppose butter would be the classic approach." He glances over the counter before returning his eyes to the other man, straightening up. "But I don't think I would pair it with sencha." "Classic," the man says this with a quiet snort, dismissive but not derisive, his eyes flicking back across the room. "Yeah, that's what he goes with," he flicks pale long fingers off towards the blonde at his table, "but it needs something to jazz it up a bit, don't you think?" He looks over the other man in a long sweep of gaze, slowly thoughtful. "What /would/ you pair a buttered scone with?" The newcomer smiles slightly and considers, looking over his new companion briefly, contemplatively. "I?" Another pause, as he turns to pluck the tea menu off of the counter and hold it below him, eyes flicking down to scan across it. "English Breakfast would go well. I think, personally, I would pair it with an Earl Grey and a splash of lemon." he looks up from the menu to watch the other man's reaction with a warm smile. "Classic, still," the man notes with a widening of his smile that puts small dimples into his cheeks. He leans an elbow against the counter, a shift of motion that seems more tired than relaxed, and looks over the newcomer more intently. "Alright, so, what /classic/ did you go with today? I don't think you're here for chocolate tea," and here he tips his head towards the table in the center, with the two small children and their presumable grandparent, "and it's probably not any strawberry sencha, either." He leans in, just slightly, with a slight sniff. "Might could be a crisp Ceylon? Hm. No." He decides this /no/ while looking at the man's grey slacks. "Smokier. For winter. Like a Russian caravan, maybe." "A good guess, certainly. Not far off, geographically." The man's smile widens, and he brushes one hand over the steam coming out of the mug, wafting it towards the other man. "But yet, not right." A pause, and his smile widens. "I'm having it with a plain pastry. The flavor is complex enough on its own." The man inhales deeply, humming in quiet appreciation. "Mmm. Lapsang souchong. I got the smokey right, at least." His own scone is arriving, hot with a small ceramic tub of jam beside it. "Lucien won't drink it, yet." He is straightening with a wince, and drifting back towards his table, continuing speaking as if he just /expects/ the other man to fall in along with him. "Says it's too early. That that's a /winter/ tea. For drinking while it snows." "It is not even December yet," the blonde -- Lucien -- is answering without looking up. "Will be tomorrow," the slimmer of the two replies. "It snows even in the fall," The man points out, glancing between the two figures with a friendly smile. He turns to pick up his own pastry and follow, though he would be hard pressed to point out why. He sits down across from the two men, on the other side of the table, and sets down his pastry near the edge of it. His tea and saucer, on the other hand, go on his lap. "Iolaus," he says, extending a hand to the smaller of the two. "Matt," introduces the smaller, lifting a hand to clasp Iolaus's firmly, his skin rather warm to the touch. Lucien finally looks up from his book, his jaw hardening slightly as he looks Iolaus over. For a very long moment. And then he exhales quietly and leans forward to pour two cups full of tea, closing his book gently in his lap. "Thaaat's Lucien," the other introduces, when Lucien fails to. "You come here a lot? Their lapsang is great." "No, actually, this is my first time." Iolaus says, glancing over Lucien briefly before turning his attention back to Matt. "It was recommended by one of the students in my lecture when I mentioned my desire for a caffeine fix." he says, a slight flash of teeth showing as his smile sparks briefly into a grin. He lifts the mug to his lips and blows over the surface lightly, before taking a ginger sip. He lets out a soft noise of contentment. "You speak the truth." he says, lowering it back down to his saucer carefully. "He would not lie about a matter so serious," Lucien finally addresses Iolaus for the first time, not looking at the man but tipping his vividly green gaze down into his cup. He pulls the cup close, watching the steam dance up from it. "Students. What do you teach?" "I'd guess this too," Matt says, dragging his own teacup nearer and wiggling fingers over top of it to make its steam dance and curl, "but I'm only good with the tea. You should give the student an A." "If it was my grade to give, I would." Iolaus remarks, as he lifts the tea towards his mouth, but holds it there, breathing in the smoky smell of the souchong. "I was just a guest lecturer over at NYU's graduate school. There for a day, back to work the next." he says, shrugging his shoulders once. "I wish I could say it was an interesting class, but the professor seemed determined to bring me in on one of the most boring topics in bioethics that I can imagine he could have found." He tsks once, then takes another sip of his tea. "I feel more sorry for the students than I do myself, though. If it was that boring to lecture on, I can only imagine how painful it was to sit through." "Well, c'mon, if you had a boring lecture to give wouldn't you want to call in a pinch-hitter?" Matt raises his eyebrows, his smile still quirked easy across his expression. "What's your normal work, then? When you're not boring students to death?" Lucien is still looking into his tea. His fingers have curled around it firm and hard, nailbeds pressing white beneath their neatly-trimmed nails. He might not even be listening to the others, now, his expression abstracted and his eyes not lifting. Eventually, though, he asks quietly, "What constitutes the most boring imaginable bioethics topic?" "The ethical questions on the creation of simple cellular life." Iolaus says, rolling his eyes for a brief moment, heavenward. "The entire lecture can be summed up by 'there aren't any.'" He shakes his head once, sadly. "Philosophical ones, perhaps, but ethical ones? No." His eyes flick back to Matt. "I'm a doctor and researcher over at Mount Sinai, up in the east 90s." "People can create controversy over anything," Lucien says with a quiet exhalation down into his tea. "I am sure many would be quick to jump at you for playing God." His voice carries little inflection to lend this any weight one way or another, only soft and quiet as he speaks. "What do you research?" His eyebrows quirk upwards, though given that his gaze does not shift he looks as though he is questioning his /tea/. "Playing God?" "Tch. Isn't that what all medicine is?" Matt picks up a knife, tipping his scone onto its side to start cutting it open. Start, but not finish; a tremble of his hand and his knife slips sharply; he succeeds only in messily slicing off a corner. Lucien reaches over to take it without comment, quickly slicing the biscuit down its center to release a small plume of steam. Setting it back on the plate with the knife rested beside it, he slides the plate back to Matt. "If the gods didn't want us to play at being them," Matt says, lightly cheerful, "why would they give us the minds to do it?" Iolaus' eyes watch the other man's hand shake with his expression unchanging, unjudgemental. They flick back to his face, then over to Lucien's. "Perhaps, when the situation calls for it. My specialty is genetics. These days, much of my own research is on the evolution of infectious diseases, but I spend most of my time assisting others on their work with patients. I get called in on a lot of the complex cases that might have a basis in genetics, or where genetics might influence the outcome of the case." he explains, taking another sip of his tea and then setting both saucer and cup down onto the table to pick up his pastry and plate. Matt's face remains much as it has this whole time: relaxed, easy-smiling, warm through its strong-sculpted features. Perhaps a little pale. Lucien's is impassive, quietly neutral as he sips his tea, though now he watches the thinner man across the table rather than keeping his gaze turned down. "I imagine that must be a decent load of cases, non? Things our /genes/ influence have a rather wide scope." "I didn't say that I was getting much of anywhere in my own research," Iolaus jokes, lightly, smile breaking across his face. "Yes, it does. I spend a lot of time working with people trying to conceive, and with people who have diseases that they are not able to identify. But... it runs the gamut. Sometimes, I feel like I might as well have specialized in 'sickness'." His smile widens slightly, and he takes a bite of his pastry, letting the little flakes of golden sweetness fall to the plate that he holds beneath. "That," Matt says, one side of his mouth hooking up into a wider smile, "would be a /shitty/ specialty." He spreads jam onto one half of his scone, lifting it to take a quick bite.  Lucien just snorts, a soft sound with a faint flare of nostrils. "With people trying to conceive. So you specialize in death and in life." "Sure. He's a doctor," Matt replies. "As much as possible the latter." Iolaus says, mildly, before taking another bite of his food. He returns it to its rightful home on the plate, and switches it on the table with his tea and saucer. A deep sip of tea washes down the crumbs that had stuck to the inside of his mouth, and he looks down into the tea. "This tea is quite delicious." A pause. "And you? What do you do?" "Doctor or not, /everyone/ tries specializing in the latter more. Some people are just --" Matt pauses to take another bite of scone, the tip of his tongue flicking out to lick a crumb from the corner of his lips. "-- better at it than others. The tea is great. You should try the Darj. I don't do anything. Mooch off my brother." Though his tone stays amiable-light with this information, there is a brief tightening of his expression, eyes flicking briefly to Lucien and then back to Iolaus. "Yes, well, consider it recompense for a lifetime of looking after me. I drink tea," Lucien delivers in answer to Iolaus, "and read. Does that question," and here he leans forward, finally settling his gaze with a rather strong /intensity/ on Iolaus, "tell you something vital about a new acquaintance? It never takes long for it to come up. Some kind of cultural imperative. As though knowing how a body feeds itself gives you some insight into their soul." Iolaus glances between the two men as he watches the interplay he is not quite able to understand, and meets Lucien's gaze with his own. "Not particularly. I think your choice in tea tells me more about you than your occupation would, as well as the books that you read. Still, having just talked about my own, I believe it would be rude not to ask you your own." he says, smile quirking at one side of his mouth. Lucien holds Iolaus's eyes steadily a long moment. He does not answer the question. Instead, he plucks the book out of his lap, setting it gently on the table and splaying fingertips atop its leatherbound cover to slide it across towards Iolaus. /A la recherche du temps perdu/, the cover says, and beneath, /Marcel Proust/.  Iolaus places his mug well away from the book, and he picks it up gently, as if it was made of glass. He turns it over in his hands, first, examining the cover, before he traces a single finger down the cover, over the title. He opens the book to the first few pages, flipping through them. "Proust." he says, looking up at Lucien and closing the book gently, with a soft sound of air being squeezed out from between the pages. "I have read only two translations." he says, holding the book out for the other man to take back. "Never the original." Like the cover, the rest of the pages are in French as well. "So what does that tell you about him?" Matt wants to know, licking jam off his fingertips as he polishes off the last of his scone. "Well, the obvious first. He speaks French, and has quite good taste in literature." Iolaus says, eyes flicking to Matt to respond and sticking there for a moment as he watches the other man lick the sticky liquid off of his fingers. He looks back at Lucien, appraisingly. "But the rest of it tells me more. The book is in impeccable condition, yet is clearly not new. I would guess that he keeps his bookshelf quite ordered, and well-stocked at that. People who take this good care of books usually have a not insignificant number of them." Lucien still makes no reply to this -- not out loud. His lips tip up at their corners, though, just the faintest hint of smile there; it touches his eyes far more than his mouth, warming their bright green into something more hospitable than their previous cool reserve. "He classifies them," Matt says this around a mouthful of finger, the tip of his index finger sliding between his lips and then back out with a quiet pop of air. "Library of Congress style." Scone gone, he drains the rest of his mug, setting it back down with a quiet clink. His eyes close, briefly, and he murmurs something in soft French to Lucien. "-- Alone?" Lucien answers in English, already setting down his own mug and reaching for his jacket. Matt waves him off with a quick-flick smile and another  reply that, by its tone, is teasing. "It's past my bedtime," he says to Iolaus with a hook of a grin, "and I'll turn into a pumpkin soon enough. Was nice to meet you, though. Have fun playing God." "Library of Congress style? I have mine by Dewey." Iolaus says, looking at Lucien in surprise. He turns his attention to the now departing Matt and stands politely, extending a hand for the other man to shake. "It was good to meet you, Matt." he says, flashing him a bright smile. "Next time, perhaps, you will have the lapsang souchong." Matt braces a hand against the table as he stands, slipping his jacket on before clasping Iolaus's hand briefly. "Only if it's snowing," he answers with an amused lilt and a glance to his brother. Lucien presses his lips together slightly at Iolaus's answer, taking his book back and resting it in his lap. "I categorize mine /properly/," is his simple answer. Iolaus laughs, a light sound as he sits back down in the chair and turns to face Lucien. "Is that so? What, pray tell, makes it more proper than Dewey? After all, Dewey has tradition on its side, if nothing else." he says, settling back against the chair back and picking up his tea mug once more. He takes another sip, studying the man across from him contemplatively. "So too does spousal abuse, and maraschino cherries in cocktails," Lucien answers evenly. "Ah, but I can make a strong case for why spousal abuse is less appealing than the alternative. Similarly, I can make a good case for why maraschino cherries should be cast out of any cocktail preparation process in favor of more flavorful and less... aggressive items." Iolaus counters, raising one eyebrow. "Can you do the same for Dewey?" "Certainly. Its classification is far less versatile. All well and good for the breadth of subject matter necessary when it was created, but less so when it needs to evolve with the times." Lucien turns his hand up -- perhaps in a shrug, perhaps to study the undersides of his (immaculately groomed) nails, for he curls his fingers in towards himself a moment later. "The LOC adapts, as all things must, sooner or later, if they are to survive." "True, but in many things, the Library of Congress does not have as much fine detail as Dewey does." The doctor raises a hand, anticipating an objection. "It is equally true that Dewey is missing many concepts which it should have; I am not going to refute that in the least. Yet, still, isn't that merely an argument for updating Dewey, not replacing it with something new?" he asks, tilting his head slightly to one side and studying Lucien's expression. "It would be an argument for it," Lucien answers mildly, expression impassive as he studies his nails, "if Dewey took to being updated." He drops his hand to curl around his glass, lifting it for a long pull that drains it of its remaining tea. "In that, I suppose, you are correct." Iolaus says, leaning backwards and taking another sip of tea. He gives the other man a thoughtful look, and he lifts his hand to rub briefly at his nose with a knuckle. "Perhaps I will have to reshelve all of my books this weekend, as I find I am unable to come up with a further argument." He bows his head, as if the defeated complimenting the victor on a masterful game, but he does it with a smile. Lucien sets his cup down on its saucer, slow and careful with a quiet clink of ceramic against ceramic. "I hope," he murmurs, quiet, "that you are a stronger doctor than you are debater. I fear for your patients if in their treatments you capitulate so easily." He is still rather steadily Not Looking at Iolaus, though this changes as he shifts to retrieve his wallet from where his brother had left it, slipping it back into his jacket and then glancing at the doctor. "Still. There are worse ways to spend your weekend than tending to a library." "It is one of the most important hallmarks of science that its practitioners are all the willing to accept when their ideas have been successfully challenged, and medicine is no different. When another doctor points out that I was wrong in regards to a theory, or in the care I am giving, I am all the more grateful to them for it." Iolaus points out, taking another long sip of tea and placing it down on the saucer. He picks up the pastry and plate, eyes falling to study the pastry as he rotates it between two fingers, holding it steadily as he turns it in the light. "But I agree, at least," he says, his eyes rising to meet the other man's. "Reading is a passion of mine, and I have no desire to see my books done a disservice by being mis-organized." For a moment Lucien looks as though he is about to put his jacket back on, but he pauses, slanting a sidelong glance to the other man. After a brief beat of hesitation, he leans forward, pouring a second cup of tea for himself. "And if I were to look at your bookshelves," he wonders quietly, "What would its contents tell me about /you/?" A beat. "Misorganization aside." "Mm." Iolaus murmurs softly as he takes a bite of his pastry, and his eyes twinkle for a moment. "If I told you that, it would be cheating, would it not?" he asks. "It seems that is the sort of thing that one must discover by oneself." he says, pausing once to study the other man's face. "I could tell you some of the books on the shelves, though that is a poor substitute for seeing yourself, but the analysis you must draw for yourself." Lucien exhales, a quiet breath that approaches laughter though it does not touch his bright green eyes. Still, a faint smile curls on his lips, and now he does shake out his jacket, does slip an arm into it. "Cheating, yes," he accedes with a faint tip of his head. "But cheating implies playing the game at all." Iolaus dips inside his bag for a moment, shuffling through it for a second. A moment later, he comes out with a pen and a card, which he scribbles something down on it. He extends the card between two fingers towards the other man, eyes twinkling with a flashing, somewhat mischievous smile. "If you want to come see my library, I would be more than happy to show you." he offers. His other hand comes up to wave something away. "I mean it honestly, not as a pick-up line. I'm afraid I don't have as many pastries, but I do have tea." "A pick-up line." Lucien says this dry as dust, one eyebrow quirking upwards as he slips his other arm into a sleeve. "There are far worse pickup lines than tea and books," he allows, reaching forward to pluck the card from Iolaus's fingers and pocket it without looking at it. "Though no pick up line good enough to overcome a fundamental lack of interest. I am glad it was not one. Enjoy your tea." His head inclines, and he gets to his feet, tugging his jacket into place. Iolaus stands, seemly unaffected by the other man's dismissive comment. He nods once, smiling. "Thank you. Have a good rest of your evening." he says. The doctor waits until the other man has turned to leave before he sits back down to finish the rest of his pastry and his tea, eyes flicking to the departing man and then to the rest of the room at large.