ArchivedLogs:Hot Lunch Break

Hot Lunch Break
Dramatis Personae Doug, Micah
In Absentia	18 June 2014 It's hot. There's lunch. Pretty much as advertised. XD
Location <NYC> The Batcave - Greenwich Village
Nestled in a basement of the meatpacking district, a hybrid of arcade and cybercafe, The Batcave is far more sociable a place than its name would suggest. Filled at all hours of day with the beeps and music and explosions of a myriad of arcade games, as well as the laughter and conversation (and curses) to go with it, the dark theme in decor is broken up by the bright lights of their game machines. One corner of the establishment is a perpetual LAN party with a projector screen-equipped lounge area for spectators. Along the opposite wall, a counter serves soft drinks and greasy junk food, and off in the back a door leads to what is by far the larger part of the establishment: a fully-equipped laser tag arena. It is /hot/ in New York today. Here at mid-day, it's especially so, with the muggy air conspiring with the heat island of the buildings and streets to make it downright miserable -- particularly for the fair-skinned. Here in the neon gloom of the Batcave, though, it is gloriously cool; video game cabinets and laser taggers both requiring large amounts of cool air. As a result of this luxury and the advent of summer vacation, and the arcade is kind of busy. Nearly every game has a group of kids ranging from elementary school to high school ages grouped around it, and the laser tag court rings with the shrieks of a birthday party commando team. Doug is likely escaping the heat, tucked towards the back of the arcade where the older games are. It's cooler back here, but the teenager still looks a little heat-worn as he works over a Pac-Man cabinet. Dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt with a green 1UP mushroom on the chest, he's intent on the game, and ignoring the two kids who are watching and talking between themselves as they watch. "What level is he on?" one, a stocky kid in a greasy-looking tank top and board shorts asks. His friend, a tall acne-riddled teen in a pair of cutoffs and a tye-dyed t-shirt, shrugs. "I don't know, dude, but I've never seen the ghosts move that fast before." The stocky kid makes an impressed noise. "/Dude/." Okay, /maybe/ Doug isn't completely ignoring them. His lips definitely curl into a smile at this reverence. Micah is /definitely/ escaping the heat. Working out of a van has its disadvantages, especially once the temperatures hit the mid-nineties and the sun is baking down through windows and sizzling on city asphalt. The young man's auburn hair is a little spiky with sweat before he makes it into the excessively (and blessedly, just now) dark and air conditioned arcade, his work clothes (TARDIS-blue polo shirt and khakis) likely not doing him any favours on the heat front. This trip is also serving as a lunch break, it seems, as his first stop is to obtain a /cold/ ginger ale, french fries, a burger, and extra pickles from the food counter. It takes some juggling to get the little thin cardboard containers plus a bottled drink over to a table in the back without spilling any of them. The items might hit the table with a bit more thud than typical since the french fries were getting ready to cut and run. A thankful sigh passes through his lips before he settles /himself/ rather heavily in a chair, as well, slinging his messenger bag over the back of it. Doug's body is a fair indicator of how connected he is to the game, currently. He twists and turns as he slams the joystick back and forth, eyes flicking around the screen and taking note of the blurry ghosts that zoom around. The kids continue their conversation, although they're much quieter, now. As the difficulty increases. Their quiet doesn't go unnoticed, and Doug glances over in their direction to ensure that they're still /there/. And spots a familiar red head just beyond, plunking down food and then himself. The blonde straightens, the ghosts immediately claiming his forgotten Pac with the requisite noise getting a groan from his audience. "Oh, man,” Stocky says, shaking his head. "I was hoping for a kill screen." "There's not one," his friend says, shaking his head firmly. "It's just a myth. The game just gets faster and faster." "Well, we'll never know /now/, will we?" Stocky answers heatedly, and the two move away to continue their argument. Doug watches them go, and then claims his lined-up quarters from the front of the machine before drifting Micah's way. He doesn't immediately say hello, preferring to hang back a moment. Unfortunately, the place is packed with kids, and a good shove from a birthday-goer ends the distance he was trying to keep. It's only by inches that he manages to avoid hitting Micah's table with his leg, and he blushes before he offers a small. "Um, hey." One thing you can always trust at geek hangouts is for there to be good sodas. Micah swirls the already-opened bottle to bring some of the ginger chunks and sediment further up into the liquid before taking a long swing. It's really the bump-forward motion that catches Micah's attention, his look up timed with a heavy swallow, then moving the bottle out of his face. "Oh hi, Doug." It's hard to tell if the faint dusting of pink across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose would have come out on its own, or is simply an echo of the other man's. "You hidin' from the heat in here, too?" Doug inhales deeply, and looks around the arcade as he nods. Maybe he's looking for his assailant, or he might just be avoiding a head-on look. "Yeah. My new place doesn't have air conditioning, yet, so it's kind of miserable." He wrinkles his nose, and reaches up to push a hand through his hair. "You on lunch?" he guesses, looking back and down at the food. Then he smiles. "I hope you have some antacid in your van. The burgers here can be murder, depending on who's on the grill." "Mmn, yeah. It's funny. Feels like it ain't been that long since we was complainin' 'bout all the snow an' ice this year. Weather's outta control." Micah nods in answer to the lunch question. "Usually I just eat in the van real quick an' get s'more work done, but it was like bein' in an /oven/ today. I try not t'just sit an' run Lucille's AC like crazy if I can avoid it; it ain't good for 'er." The mention of the burgers stretches his lips into a slight grin. "Yeah, I got the veggie. Usually can avoid some of the grease-drippy messes that way. S'kinda hard t'mess up too bad. Pretty sure they just grill frozen ones here." "Tell me about it," Doug says. "I feel like we're living in the first half hour of The Day After Tomorrow." He smiles tightly, and lifts a shoulder. "We'll be complaining about the cold soon enough, I guess." He nods at Micah when he explains the impracticality of van dining. "Yeah, that's not good," he says, shoving his hands into his back pockets. "Broiled Micahs are no good to anyone." His gaze flicks to Micah as the older man grins, and there's a faint echo of it on his face. "The veggie burger is definitely the way to go," he agrees. "The nachos are all right, too. If you like cheese from a can." He furrows his brow, falling silent for a moment before pressing on. "You settled in at the new place, yet?" "I'm hopin' the snow this year was just makin' up for the past couple years an' it'll be mild again this next'n." Micah's eyes move to the seat across from him, pausing there as if trying to decide if it would be too awkward to the other man if he offered it. He covers the mental chewing over by popping a french fry in his mouth. "No, I gotta draw the line at anythin' that's legally required t'call itself 'processed cheese food'. Real suspect when they can't even /say/ it's cheese on the label." His hand lifts to rock back and forth in a so-so gesture. "We didn't have a whole lot t'move in, really. An' we're buildin' most of the furniture, so the place is pretty empty yet. Other than the kitchen an' Spence's room. We made sure t'get those settled 'fore we moved in." He glances at the chair again. "You still at your parents' place?" "Well, we don't need 'snowmageddon' again, that's for sure," Doug says, chuffing a laugh. He flicks his gaze to Micah's face, and notes the mental chewing. Maybe it is too awkward, since he chooses not to remark on it. Instead, he puts a hand to his heart as Micah dismisses the nachos. "No nacho cheese? I think that's nerd blasphemy. And /totally/ not allowed at ball parks, either." He shows a bit of teeth in his grin at this, although his expression sobers when Micah mentions the lack of things. He colors deeply, and drops his chin to his chest for a second. "Yeah. I was pretty much in the same boat. I've got a bed, and a desk, and that's about it right now." He shakes his head at the question, his face going deep scarlet. "No," he says, chewing on his bottom lip. "No, I'm not there anymore. I got a place over in Little Italy." “Though I worry what the newsfolks'll make up t'jaw about all day if they don't got snow,” Micah jokes lightly, moving on to nibble at a pickle spear. “Nachos're more'n fine, but y'gotta make 'em /right/, for goodness sake.” He snorts softly. “Well, I'm not gonna complain if they wanna ban me from sportsball sites. Never really felt like payin' t'be /bored/ outta m'skull, no-how.” His eyes widen a little at the effect the moving talk has on Doug, his own cheeks flaring brighter red. He bites his lip to avoid /apologising/, knowing that talking about it /more/ would likely only make it worse. “Um. That's good. I know y'was lookin' for a good minute there.” "Hey, now," Doug says, furrowing his brow. "Soccer's okay. And Australian Rules football is /never/ boring. Because short shorts and scrums." Doug's joke comes with a waggle of his eyebrows. There's not much life in either, but he smiles well enough. The color is starting to fade in his cheeks until Micah's comment gets another flare and a guilty duck of his head. "Yeah, well, I actually got lucky," he says. "I was looking specifically for a room mate situation, and Dom was like the third person I talked to." He lifts a shoulder. "I had to get out of my folks' before my birthday, so I was pretty agreeable." He waves a hand indistinctly at the wall towards the street. "And the neighborhood is a good one. Relatively speaking." "S'plenty of places t'find scantily dressed folks without havin' t'resort t'sportsball," Micah teases gently. "Can always just go t'the /park/ in the city. S'a pretty good bet outside the dead of winter." He picks up his ginger ale bottle again, swirling its contents for an excuse to put his /eyes/ somewhere when Doug starts looking guilty. "Oh, even better. I know y'were tryin' t'find a roommate even at the old--" Gah, why does every line of conversation seem to lead back there? He cuts himself off, moving on to the next thing Doug talks about. "Good as in, they ain't gonna give y'no trouble over...registration status?" Subtle, see. "Oh, man," Doug says, his smile loosening just a bit. "Tell me about it. The pitch this time of year is just a smorgasbord for the eyes. But ARF is good for late-night cable thrills." He nods when Micah reminds him of the old place, and he manages to /not/ look guilty, somehow. "Finding one to move in was pretty hard," he admits. "There are a lot of crazies in the city. But this guy...he doesn't give me any weird signals or anything, so here's hoping." He crosses his fingers, and waves them in front of him lightly. He shrugs at the question. "I don't think they will," he says, wrinkling his nose. "Most of the people I've talked to in the building seem to be pretty neutral about the whole thing." He shrugs. "But, like I was telling Hive and Flicker last night, I don't think they've ever seen someone like Dusk or the twins in person, so it's hard to say what their real thoughts are." He frowns, his expression turning thoughtful. "Huh." "Y'didn't tell 'im 'fore y'moved in?" Micah's brows dip toward each other at that. "I mean, I know it /shouldn't/ matter, but. It'd be terrible t'find out /afterward/ that there'll be a problem. S'the same as movin' into dorms durin' college. Was always part of the first day conversation with m'roommates that there might need t'be a change if they was gonna start trouble if an' when I was datin' guys. Better t'know y'need t'go somewhere else right off than t'have t'put up with that or move later." He nods at the elaboration, sketching a french fry through a ketchup puddle. "It does seem t'be a whole dif'rent story with folks as /look/ dif'rent on top of just havin' abilities." "Oh, no," Doug says, his eyes widening at the question. "We talked about it. I definitely told him. I even showed him my card. He seemed like he could really give a shit about it." He shrugs, and spreads his hands before he shoves them back into his pockets. "But I definitely told him that. And that I was gay. Because of those very reasons." He exhales heavily at Micah's comment, and nods simply. "I think the two together are hard to reconcile, for most people." His smile now is a little sad, although he hides it as he fishes out his phone to read the text there as he continues. "But I'm not sure it's going to really be an issue for me any time soon, you know?" “Oh, good.” Micah looks genuinely relieved at Doug's clarification. “Usually folks as /do/ care would just say that the roommate situation wasn't gonna work out for...whatever other reasons if they didn't feel comfortable sayin' it was /that/. This guy actually agreein' t'have you move in after y'told 'im all that...I don't think he /has/ a problem. So that's good.” He finally eats the thoroughly tomato-covered fry. “An'...folks as /have/ an issue with the gay thing usually have it whether there's partners involved or not. 'Specially if it's one of those straight guys who're convinced they're irresistible t'gay men for some reason.” "He's pretty cool," Doug says. "He's my age, but he works down at the docks." He furrows his brow. "I don't remember if he said whether he was straight or not. He's got a couple of friends like that, though." Doug grins. "They came over last night. All they wanted to do was ask if I thought they were hot." He chuckles, tapping at the screen of his phone. "Which they are, by the way." He smiles, and sends the text before dropping his phone to his side. "They're pretty good guys. They play a vicious game of Risk, though." His eyebrows lift, and he smiles. "Be sure and tell Hive that. There was shouting and everything." His phone vibrates again, and he glances down at it. "Oh, hey. I have to run," he says, in a tone that's a mix of apology and relief. "Dom's got a line on a second-hand sofa for sale in the building." He waves a hand indistinctly. "Wants me to take a look at it, since he's at work." “That's good y'all are gettin' along. Bad roommate situations are the /worst/ but good ones can be quite pleasant all-around.” Micah's nose crinkles at the mention of Risk. “Risk either goes borin' or yellin'. It's like Monopoly.” He nods at Doug's response to his phone. “Good luck on the sofa shoppin'. S'one of the only things I think we're buyin', furniture wise. An' some bean bags. Have a good one, hon.” Once Doug has wandered off, he tucks into his veggie burger. Lunch breaks are only but so long, after all.