ArchivedLogs:Dogtown and X-Boys
| Dogtown and X-Boys | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2013-01-25 Some mooching. |
| Location
<NYC> Dogtown - Midtown | |
A small nook of a joint in Midtown, Dogtown is decorated with little thought to class or style. Cheerful, with black and white tiled flooring, bright red tables, bright yellow walls, menus plastered on peeling sheets over the counter, the walls are papered in an assortment of photographs -- smiling patrons who hold records for successfully eating six or more hot dogs in one one-hour sitting. The menu here is simple and solid -- hot dogs with a huge array of toppings, fries, slaw, chili. It's not haute cuisine but the dogs are good enough to draw large crowds, especially late at night. It's too late for lunch and too early for dinner and /way/ too early for the what-options-are-there-at-3-am crowd, and as such Dogtown is not bustling nearly as much as it does at those hours. There's a pair of teenagers at a back table, ignoring each other in favour of their cellphones; at the counter by the window a man in a business suit is hurriedly downing the first of a pair of hotdogs; at a booth near the front a couple is very indecisively discussing the rest of their plans for the afternoon. By the counter there is just as much indecision; a very-thin very-pale man bundled up SNUG against the cold despite the quite toasty warmth in the store. He is leaning against the arm of a taller man, broader, less bundled in that he has shed his coat already and wears only a trim button-down with his neatly tailored jeans. Lucien is waiting. Patiently. For the other to make up his mind; occasionally he offers quiet /suggestions/ in French. The cashier is waiting less patiently, but with no line behind them there is nobody to hurry them along. Did you just feel the class in the room take a nose dive? Jim shoulders into the Dogtown haggard and rumpled, with a smudge of something dark at the corner of his eyebrow. His tatty coat is fortified by a gray-and-darker-gray striped scarf and he keeps the door propped open with an elbow while wiping off his hands on a grubby handkerchief, leaving dart sooty smudges on the material. He's letting in a /cold draft/ and hopefully another person, not just standing there torturing the room, "Okay, so that was interesting." He doesn't sound excited. Just commentative, whapping the handkerchief towards /whoever enters behind/ him. His eyes catch up on Lucien's back, his bland smile catching for only a moment. But it's enough - I know that guy. Hive isn't looking much less rumpled, his coat equally shabby and his jeans streaked with dark where he has elected to use /them/ as napkin. He does take Jim's handkerchief, though. He wipes a clean(er) corner against a similar smudge along his jaw, tossing the handkerchief sort of over Jim's head. Like a bonnet. "You never did even find that cop, did you. This might be better." He's barely looking around the room, his eyes tired-drooping as he shoves hands in his coat pockets and trudges towards the counter. He frowns at the men at the counter. << Which guy? Skeleton or Classy dude? Like. /Know/-him know-him? >> There's vague mental suggestions that accompany this, making it clearer. /Know/ him in the work way, not the sex way. "Oh -- oh. Sorry," says the thinner of the men, glancing back when there /are/ people coming up behind him. Like Lucien, his eyes are quite green, though this distinctive feature is about as far as similarities can be read. There's a brief moment where his brow furrows slightly, eyes narrowing on the other men, but then he just turns back to the board. "Maybe the honey mustard and swiss? Maybe --" Frown. << Which of these can I keep /down/, >> is a more fretting undertone. Lucien's hand is resting at the other man's back. His fingers /drum/ against the man's puffy jacket, impatient. He glances back, too, gaze skipping dismissively over Hive, skipping dismissively over Jim, as well -- and then returning. His eyes narrow, and one corner of his mouth twitches slightly up. His own mental scape is -- blank, mostly. /There/, to be sure, but a glassy-smooth /void/ that is easy to slip right over. "Maybe you guys should order," the other man is fretting, stepping aside to give Counter Space. "Maaaybe," Lucien stretches this /out/, his soft francophone accent (one that the other man shares) not really allowing it a proper /drawl/, "you should make up your mind." "Yeah, you say that like /I/ know what I want," Jim grimaces up at the board, looking for whatever might give him his breatest bang for the buck. Cheese. Chili. Onions. << Oh, he know-knows a lot of folks, I'd bet. >> There's a passing mental picture of a dark room, developing pictures shot through windows. << Trade pro. Better contact than enemy, if you get me. He could probably bring a world of trouble down on someone if he had a minute. >> He raises his eyebrows at the two ahead of him, "What's good here?" "The chili is delicious," Lucien answers, gently pulling the smaller man against his side as they move slightly sideways down the counter. "Especially when paired with cheddar and poured onto a hot dog. Their wings are pretty great, too. You both look exhausted." "I like the baked beans," pipes up his companion. "I think I know what you want, though. German Shepherd. That's mustard and sauerkraut. /You/ want the honey mustard and Swiss." This is to Hive, a quick smile curling his chapped lips as he looks at the other two men. "And root beer. They make their own. It's great." << Mmm. Root beer. >> His mental plane is not really that much different from his vocal one. "Yeah? Do I?" Hive considers this a moment, then shrugs. "Sure. Uh. Honey mustard and Swiss dog. And a root beer. I'm blaming you, though," he tells the other man, "if this is shitty." << Knows-knows? >> Hive is looking over Lucien with a bit more curiosity. << What kind of folks? Those jeans don't look cheap. >> "Hey, you sound like y'd know. I'll have what he said," Jim orders, jerking a thumb mildly at the skinnier man. He adds to Lucien with a brittle scrub up the back of his neck, one red eye squeezing closed, "Hah, yeah. Stayed up all night working. This is kinda dinner and breakfast in one. Dreak...fast. Brinner." Thing. << Ho ho, I'm talkin' top shelf clients. Found him at the end of Branden Fressner trail. Boy is his wife a Grade-A thundercunt. >> He is thumbing through the contents of his wallet, fat with receipts and expired coupons, frowning, "Uh, say, you got this?" "Dreakfast sounds better," the thin man opines, still pursing his lips up at the board. His mind now is mostly focused on /queasy/, an undercurrent of nausea twisting all his thoughts into determined focus. On food. Or not food. << No -- no -- no -- /ugh/, no -- gotta pick. /I/ made him come all the way here for this, I should -- ugh. No. Okay. Ugh, no. >> "I'll get a ginger ale," he is saying out loud, more up to Lucien than to the cashier dealing with Hive and Jim; externally he is cheery, save for his tired leaning. "And, um, maybe the beans." << Don'tpukedon'tpuke. >> Lucien glances at the other two, the slight twitch of his lips fading as Jim extracts his wallet. He looks back to the board. "Mmm. Alright. Up all night? It was worth it, I hope. Funnily enough, I did, too." The other man winces. His head ducks in a look almost guilty. << :( >> << Fressner like that family values asshole? >> This is /distinctly/ amused, as Hive slants a glance back to Lucien. << Shit, but wouldn't /some/ people like to know where he goes sniffing around. I /don't think/ that's his wife there. >> Outwardly, he is scowling at Jim's wallet. "Yeah, yeah," he says, grimacing as he looks at the meagre two singles in his wallet, and takes out his debit card instead. Hands it over, even as he's caaaasually sidestepping away from Lucien's friend. << Kid might hurl, >> he cautions Jim. The cashier frowns at his screen, shaking his head. "Hang on," he says, "lemme try this again." Running the card a second time produces the same results. "Um. Do you have another card, sir? This one's declined." << Yeah, his wife's got broader shoulders and a bigger adam's apple. >> Jim pulls the foot nearest the thinner man back a ways, turning his back to the cashier with a quiet swear, "Uh, hang on, lemme check and see if I got some cash on me." He begins riffling through is wallet, not with any extreme hope but you never know. And from there, begins systematically cramming his hand down each pocket of his jacket and pants. "Yeah, well, this city wasn't really made for sleeping in, huh?" Asked on the side to Lucien, his teeth slightly gritted. Lucien is watching this tragic happening with bland indifference. He scans the cashier. He scans the menu. His fingers continue to drum restless and impatient against the other man's back. The other man is watching, too. << Oh! >> is a sad sort of realization, as he looks over the pair, and he leans more /heavily/ into Lucien. Nudging an elbow at Lucien's side. << Shit, that sucks, poor guys, >> is followed soon by, << Just a couple hot dogs. >> He tips his head upwards, murmuring quietly in French to Lucien: "{C'mon. It's not like we can't afford a couple hot dogs.}" Lucien exhales slow, wincing. The other man speaks again, cajoling: "{Hey, when /we/ were --}", and Lucien cuts him off with one clipped, "{/Fine/.}" He pulls out his own wallet -- it is fat, too, though in his case this is with actual money -- gesturing to the cashier. "Here. Just put them with us. He will have the baked beans and a ginger ale, and I would like a root beer and a chili cheese dog. -- This city was made for many exciting things," he adds with a thin smile to Jim and a dry tone that does not make /exciting/ sound -- well, exciting. "It tends to push sleeping far down the list." Hive's lips press together, his eyes narrowing on the thin man even before he speaks -- and then, secondarily, on Lucien, with a fleeting look of puzzlement. Brief, testing, a squeezing mental nudge presses at Lucien's mind -- though it's quickly withdrawn as Hive drops a hand to his pocket to take his phone out and frown at it. His thumb taps at the screen quickly. "Um," he remembers to say to Lucien, though it doesn't sound very /resistant/ to this generosity, "you sure, man?"
Jim is grimacing vaguely, guessing what the exchange between the two men might be about - considering he's already closing his wallet in defeat. A glance to Hive intends mostly to make a dreary poor-man's eye contact, eyes thinning at the glimpse of puzzlement. << What? >> To Lucien, and primarily the younger man, he quirks a vaguely embarrassed grin, "You kiddin'? Boy, I appreciate, guy. I don't know where my heads been these days." Lucien has handed his card over to the cashier already -- probably lucky for Hive and Jim's meal, considering that at that mental nudge he /tenses/ sharp and stiff, fingers curling tight into the puffy material of the other man's jacket. "Sure, we're sure," says the other, brightly despite his mental << aughwhat? >> at the sudden clench of fingers; he shoots a /worried/ look up to the taller man. "Cold out. Couple of dogs look like they'll do a body /good/. 'sides, you seem like you had a long night. -- {What's wrong?}" continues in French, eyes tipping upwards. "{Fucking telepath,}" Lucien is snipping, clipped, eyes scanning the room quickly. "{Shut them /down/.}" Aloud, less clipped though far from /warm/, now: "Everyone has those days. After a considered lack of sleep, even moreso." << Guy doesn't have a brain, >> Hive is saying with some confusion, still tapping at his phone after it buzzes again. He offers a quick smile, a little sheepish, "Man, /thanks/. That's really good of --" The exchange between the other two stops him, pales him somewhat, his eyebrows raising. << Shit he /knows/ -- >> "Hey," is /actually/ apologetic this time, "Hey, I'm sorry." "Pshhh..." Jim glances surreptitiously around the room, muttering in an undertone, "Hey. We're all low on sleep here, huh? He can't really help it. Believe me, I'm sure he'd love to, some of the shit I'll throw at him." << He already paid, right? >> It's a pretty pragmatic concern. Hunger, and all.
The smaller man just closes his eyes, at Lucien's answer, teeth gritting slightly as he leans harder against Lucien's side. There's a pause, and then -- nothing. In that the mutations of those in his immediate vicinity abruptly cease functioning. The man exhales slowly, looking back between Jim and Lucien (as, yes, the purchase is rung up, the receipt passed to Lucien to sign.) "Hey," he says, warm but /quiet/, "no worries, just unexpected I think. Sorry. Um." His eyes are darting, between the others, between the rest of the room. "Why don't we sit?" Given his heavy slump this might be as much for his sake as the sake of getting the conversation away form the register. Lucien's jaw is tight as he signs the receipt. Slides it back with a small smile for the cashier. "Yes," he says tightly, "Let's." He is steering the other man towards a booth. One with the smallest number of surrounding occupants. Hive's brows have pulled into a frown -- and suddenly a /deeper/ one, his posture tensing as well. His breath /hisses/ in, sharp, and then -- and then he relaxes. Sudden. Eyes widening with a slow glance around the room. "Uh --" It's a /long/ pause of 'Uh--'. He is distracted soon by his phone, which he frowns at. Taps at. Pockets. "-- Wh --" He looks at the other men. Looks at Jim. Shrugs, and follows, seeming a /little/ bit dazed. "Did you -- are you --" Apparently finishing sentences is hard. He seems not entirely together.
Jim doesn't at first seem to entirely notice - save a look at Hive, neutral-quick, from the corner of his eye. He presses a fist against his mouth and coughs, brows furrowing. "Wh-ff!-at?" A few lines of tension have constricted, a tendon standing out in either side of his neck, jaw tightening, but he falls in mild enough on a ramble towards the table, if with his eyes concentrated at some middleground concentration and slightly glassy. He clears his throat hard a few times as he sits down, vaguely /concerned/ glances cast towards Hive and then flicking a fragment harder on the two men across the table. "What's going on," he rasps with a care. And then turns his head aside to cough /irritably/, at enough of a length that he eventually fists out a his handkerchief to press over his mouth. "/Christ/." Lucien eases his brother down into the bench, first, settling in beside only once the other man is comfortably seated. He looks a little disgruntled, as well, frowning across the table at the others. "Kindly," he says, in a thin tone, "stay out of my head." His brother's eyes widen, looking from Hive to /Jim/ and his evident discomfort. "{Oh, shit,}" is in French initially, and then, "You /too/? Sorry, I didn't know. Uh." He frowns, scrubbing a hand against his eyes. "{Luci, I can't, it's -- I'm tired.}" "Sorry." Lucien is /clearly/ saying this to his brother and not either of the other two, a concerned glance given to /him/ in between a more narrow-eyed one to Hive. "Let him go, then. I was a little alarmed." His brother slumps back in his seat. Mutations return to normal. "We've had some bad experiences," he apologizes. "I didn't mean to -- what /did/ I do to you?" He's frowning at Jim, worried. Hive still seems dazed as he slips into his seat, dropping his head almost immediately to rest in his hands and his brows knit. "I won't poke again," he tells Lucien, somewhat mumbled, "Can't stop listening though." For all his evident disconcertion he doesn't seem much /more/ relaxed when his telepathy comes /back/, cringing and squeezing his eyes together /tight/. "Fuuuuck," he breathes out, half under his breath. "Fuck. You okay?" To Jim. Frowning. Down at the table, though. "Ffhhhhh," okay, Jimmy-boy, on the count of three we're gonna do this. One, two, "--Nah." Jim makes a ragged-cocky crook of grin across the table at the smaller man, through a faint sheen of sweat, turning the collar of his jacket up in rushed-casual manner that looks more assholish and less hurried. The flaky texture towards the back of his neck has begun to creep towards the front, darkening and coarsening - it can only really be seen by those sitting directly across from him, and his hands, which are determinately doing the same, are shoved under the table between his knees. His grin remains; it helps with bared teeth, "I'm a'right. Who hasn't, huh?" His body, however, isn't so quick to forget a few /sharp/ localized pints of hard obstruction in the depth of his chest, and he breathes slowly to not agitate another cough. It mostly doesn't show in his face, "That's some kinda power you got. /You/ alright?" This is to Hive. "Both of you." Lucien rests a hand over his brother's, a gesture that seems too offhand-distracted to be very affectionate. His eyes skip between Jim and Hive, considering Jim's neck, considering Hive's grimacing expression. He exhales, slow. "This city." It takes a slow few moments of delay, but eventually Matt relaxes under the touch, sitting up a little straighter, his expression easing slightly. "I really am sorry," he says, quiet, "if I hurt you, I didn't -- expect there to be, um, a /lot/ of people in range. It's usually a safe bet there's only one," he says wryly. "But. This city." Internally his mental stream is a little more jittery-panicked: << Oh god is that guy petrifying? Did I petrify someone wait how can someone's mutation be /not being petrified/ it wasn't supposed to hurt -- I guess it hurts Luci sometimes, oh, shit. >> "We travel in packs," Hive says with a /sharp/ slice of smile across the table. "Both of /you/?" He's looking at Lucien, for this; the question's already been /answered/ for Matt clearly enough but the taller man gets a /puzzled/ look. He hasn't lifted his head /much/, still largely resting in his hands with his expression twisted tight. He is breathing through his teeth, and around the table -- around the /room/, really, there are faint brief pulses of uncomfortable mental /press/ to the minds of the people around. "Fuck. Yeah. Just didn't expect. Fuck. -- Shit, and now it's popped collar o'clock?" Hive's eyes have slanted sideways, his strained smile hooking up just a bit more even as those presses get /harder/. It's causing some discomfit in the room, cashier stopping to press hands to temples, He's looking at Jim's neck, for a moment, clearly briefly (worriedly) focused on the hardening of skin. Which /doesn't/ stop his subsequent: "You look like a douchebag." Jim grimaces, casting a last hard look at Hive - christ he looks worn ou- ouuuch, shit, what the hell. << Got loud again, huh? You wanna ease up? >> Then flicks eyes between the impersonal touch Lucien sets on the smaller man's hand, lifting to the gradual relaxing and sitting up in Matt, old suspicious habits wondering if they're related. He manages a laid back snort, looking around the room, "Yeah? 'Cause I /feel/ like a douchebag. Gimme a sec, I got it." He twitches his mouth at Matt, "Yeah, this damn city. Not really sure I could've warned you if I knew. It's not," he thumps a fist against his chest, "the freakish parts working against me here." His eyes stay twisted, jaw tight, and the advancement of roughened texture gradually comes to a stop, having just reached the far sides of his face. Slowly, they begin to recede. Lucien's eyes narrow at the mental pressure, his teeth clamping down. "Do you need help?" he asks, thinly, "or can you get that under control." The cashier is setting down trays, on the counter behind them, calling out the names of the foods; Lucien stands stiffly, turning to claim them. "O-kay," Matt says, uncertainly watching Jim. His lips curl slightly upwards, though it's a little bit forced of a smile. "I'm not popping my collar, I don't care what o-clock it is. Hey, food!" This is cheerful. His queasy mental << don'tpukedon'tpuke >> is not. << TRYING >> Hive answers, snapped irritably sharp in time with a nauseated twist of expression as he looks across the table. "Hey. Dude. You okay? You gonna hurl?" He's glancing around the table. Maybe for a bag. He does perk a little at the delivery of Food, at least enough to sit up straighter, drop his hands from his head. He's still grimacing, though. "Well. That was bracing." The mental pulses are not getting weaker, but they are going with longer stretches in between each. "So what's your deal?" "Hey," Jim frowns at Lucien, "You wanna ease up while you're at it, slick? This ain't exactly a thing we /do/ all that often. Christ, you people, this is how wars start." He climbs to his feet as well, his hands noticeably less coarse and dark now - just mottled and flaky - and heads in a different direction than Lucien. He hits up the soda fountain, grabbing one of the large 24oz cups and hands it across the table to Matt. That should hold a decent amount of puke. "No, he was serious," Matt says with a shrug, "even if cranky. He can help. If you need it." He smiles a little wryly at the cup, curling thin fingers around it -- kind of mottled, too, for that matter, and dry enough they're flaking slightly as well. "Thanks. Maybe. Trying not to. My deal?" << Deal what deal like sick or Lucien or -- ohh. >> "I. Uh. I mess with other people's --" His fingers flutter vaguely. "Make them stronger. Weaker. Off. Whatever." "Just our lucky day, I suppose. Perhaps it has been a long night." Lucien sits back down, setting the food in the center of the table and leaving it a free-for-all for everyone to claim their appropriate items. He presses his lips thinly together at the latest flux of telepathic pressure, and extends a hand, palm-up, across the table towards Hive. Hive looks /very/ suspiciously at that offered hand. But he grits his teeth and lays his own into it. /After/ claiming his hot dog with his other hand, lifting it to take a large bite. He licks mustard off his lips afterwards. "Long night," he agrees with a thin smile and a flicked look to Jim. "You, too?" "Me, too, what," Jim grouses, grabbing up his hotdog with /both hands/ wrapped around it. Watching Hive's hand head towards Lucien's closely. BIG BITE. "Damn. This /is/ what I wanted." He is probably saying this to Matt. "Yeah, I know," Matt says with a bright grin. "That's not anything super it's just a knack. It only works in restaurants." "A useful ability, though," Lucien is saying with some amusement finally cutting through his residual irritation, "when taking indecisive children out to eat. Pity it does not work helping him make up his /own/ mind, though. He had been dithering half an hour before you arrived." Matt swats him in the shoulder, snorting. "/Hey/. It was only fifteen minutes. Anyway we don't have anywhere to be today." He pulls his beans closer, stirring them around with a plastic spoon but not actually eating. "Mmm." Lucien is quieting, his own food ignored as he closes his hand around Hive's. At first there is nothing, just the warm feeling of skin on skin; this is soon followed, though, by a flush of calm, strong and soothing. Beneath the pleasant wash of soothing brain chemistry, though, he is working with more finesse, paying attention to each of those twinges of lost control and pushing back against them to tamp Hive's mutation back down into a state of quiescence. "Shit, that would be useful, putting in takeout orders at home takes a fucking /hour/ to get everyone decided. This one's good shit, too." Hive doesn't take another bite of it though; instead he sets it back into its container, his eyes widening at Lucien. He lets out a slow breath, sinking back in his bench. The tense strain tightening his expression eases away. "Mmph. Hey. Thanks. What's /your/ deal, then." He doesn't let go, just yet. The throbs of mental squeezing ebb away. "You sure that's not a mutation? Or does he," his head jerks towards Jim, "just scream sauerkraut to you." "Hey. I'll scream sauerkraut at anyone if it'll get me a hotdog." Jim comments around a full cheek of food. He jerks a chin at Lucien while watching Hive sink back into the bench, "What /did/ you do." Slightly different question, with a slightly different motivation tinging only inwardly with mistrust and concern. Outwardly, just curious. Chew. "Now I want to pay you a hotdog to scream 'sauerkraut' at the mayor during his speech next week," Matt says, amused. "These are good dogs though. I'd pay you in prime. Not just any old cockroach streetcart hotdogs." "That cart off Union Square has some of the best in the city," Lucien counters. "Not just /any old/ streetcart hotdogs," Matt repeats. "It's not a mutation. I just know people." "I calmed his mind down," Lucien answers, quieter and a little more tired. He does not let go, just yet, of Hive's hand. Still calming. Still monitoring. Only after there have been no more telepathic twinges for a good while does he withdraw, to pick up his own hot dog. "He seemed like he could use it. I imagine," his eyes slant wryly over to his brother, "that it can be a shock to suddenly lose a sense you have become accustomed to." "Been a decade since I felt what quiet's like," Hive acknowledges, his smile thin. He leaves his hand where it is for a moment even after Lucien releases it, fingers slowly flexing before he returns to his hotdog. << Fuckin' weird, man, >> he is saying, a blunted edge now to the previously sharp blade of his voice as he speaks to Jim. << Like he knew just how to tweak at my /brain/. Worked, though, >> is a grudging allowance. << Brothers, you think? Shit runs in families. Don't know if it's common to run /similar/. >> Though, in the wake of this thought, he simply voices it: "You brothers? What you do seems kinda. Related." << Way outta my expertise. >> Jim admits, though can't help but think of the only other mutant brothers he knows. Blue. Toothy. His concern doesn't vanish but it ebbs as Hive seems to be alright. "No as noticeable for me." He volunteers reluctantly, agains over three decades of Not Talking About It. "Might be different if we were somewhere else." Like a forest. "Haah. Nice reminder to appreciate what I got." Especially if the alternative would mean being dead. His next bite of dog has an extra appreciation. "We are," Matt acknowledges easily, still poking at his beans. "And two of our other siblings have it, too. All," he frowns slightly, thoughtful, "at least kind of brain-related. Huh." His tongue pokes out at the corner of his mouth. "Yes, fascinating," Lucien murmurs, sounding dry and not particularly fascinated. "What /do/ you --" He hesitates only briefly, his finishing echoed, "--got," sounding a little stiff-awkward against his precise diction. Hive is eating his dog with relish, too. CHOMP. "Whole family of freaks." He sounds amused by this. "Jim, you have any siblings?" He licks his fingers clean to pull his phone out, frowning at it for a moment. Blinking. Frowning some more as he answers. "So, you guys got names?"
<< Man, I'm never gonna get used to people asking this shit out loud. >> "Ergm." Jim grimaces behind his dog, mouth twisting sideways and shrugging crookedly, "Some kinda leafiness. It's got its uses." Nothing like y'all, most I could do to another guy is really switch up his herb garden. "No siblings. Before hitting this damn place, I've hardly run into whatever-you-wanna-call-us." Because I've avoided it like the plague (though I guess it's not so bad...). "You two are Canuk, yeah?" "Yes," Matt says, even as Lucien answers "No." The brothers exchange a /look/, and Matt continues, /decidedly/ more amused: "We're Québécois. I'm Matt. That's Luci." "Herb garden. That /would/ be useful. I do not suppose you take commissions. My cilantro has been giving me trouble." Lucien speaks quiet and dry into his hotdog; he might be serious or might not be. "This city is plagued with freaks. It might be a blessing or might be a curse. In a town where you are the only one, nobody knows they are supposed to hate you. But, ah, once they start the pitchfork-wielding mobs are harder to fight against." "Matt. Luci." Hive echoes this with a slight lift of eyebrows as he looks from one brother to the next, but then shrugs. "I'm Hive. I bet he'd get you more cilantro than your body's got room for. I think it's kinda both. Nice to know others. Less nice to see them on the evening news killing feds. Back home nobody had any idea what the fuck. They thought /I/ was cursed." Which earns a wry smile as he answers his texts again. << Don't front, >> is added to Jim, amused, << You like it. How else are you gonna get your quota of finding trouble in? >>
"Hey, in this economy? You pay me and I'll be a regular /cilantro/ whisperer. /Sub rosa/. And can you imagine me saying 'quebecois' without sounding like a pretentious asshandler?" << Blondie here's got that marker cornered. His full name is Lucien. >> Jim sort of salutes with his hotdog, wiping a bit of 'kraut off the corner of his mouth with the introductions, "Jim. And who knows, I had one guy asking me if I could grow into a /pot/ man. Or sprout strawberries." Who /else/ but Shane. "Y'know, I never really had a problem with /this/ shit," he opens and closes a dry-flaky hand, "Was already on my own. Family doesn't know. I'm from a time when it was rare enough to be easier to hide, so who knows if anyone else has it." He shakes his head, "/That/ guy. If you go by the media these days, freaks just can't go a day without assaulting some lawful upstanding citizen." BITE. Hotdog. Yum. "In English they say /Quebecker/ but that's just weird," Matt says, with a quick smile and, finally, a tentative bite of his food that comes with a silent desperate prayer to keep it down. "S'okay, though, I think Luci can cover /pretentious asshat/ for our table." He nudges his brother with his elbow as he says this. Lucien, despite his previous dry expression, twitches a smile at this. "Have you assaulted anyone today? I have been slacking, I admit." Hive smirks at Matt, but then considers this. Reaches over and thwaps Jim lightly on the back of the head. "Done." "I said /lawful upstanding/, jackass." << I haven't even had a legit ID in years. >> Jim doesn't even pause in scarfing the last of his dog to mutter this. He scans either of the men across the table, "Any volunteers? Guess Hive's gettin' the freak rage. You know how it is." Matt and Lucien exchange a look. "Upstanding and lawful don't go hand in hand as much as the phrase would want you to believe," Matt says with a slightly regretful smile. "Luci pays his taxes, though. You could hit him." The look Lucien gives Hive /dares/ him to try this. "What kind of a name is Hive?" he asks, instead. "Jim, now, that's a decent name." "Freak name," Hive answers, looking Lucien over right /back/ like maybe he's considering it? "Yeah, well, Jim's a decent guy. /Upstanding/. 'specially when you plant him. Americans mangle my name anyway. /Hive/ they can handle." "Full name's /James/," Jim offers, deadpan, "It means 'heel'." Which is about right. "Buzz buzz, huh. Seems a couple freaks I've met have changed out for different names. That a thing?" "Street kids do it, too," Matt offers, shrugging a shoulder. "I guess it's useful if you want to hide. Like. Not from everyone in general. Just if people are trying to look for you. Send you home." "Home or other places," Lucien adds, mildly, glancing at Hive and then down to Matt's barely-touched beans. He frowns, slightly, as he finishes his own hot dog. Hive's lips press together, thinly. He glances down at his own food, fingers twitching slightly tighter. "Or other places," he acknowledges, stiffer and just as thin. He shrugs, then. "Guess it's a thing. I know not-freak-people who've changed their names if they want to leave the old ones behind. Guess it's the same for us. Except we seem more prone to --" His mouth quirks, slightly. "Well. Hive. I guess I'm just not all that interested in fitting in with people who wouldn't want me there if they knew." "You're talkin' to a guy raised in hippyville," even if Jim personally looks just the opposite - save the vaguely over-long scruffy hair. "You grow up knowing folks named Starchild and Rainwater and Dripdry or whateverthefuck some pothead thought sounded cosmic-cookie at the time, /Hive/ doesn't sound so off. I almost got named Parsly - and wouldn't /that/ have been ironic. At least this guy's honest." He jerks a thumb at Hive. << Even if you're still an asshole. >> "I'd name a kid Starchild," Matt says with a grin. "Which is why you should never be allowed to breed," Lucien answers him back. "Psh, like /that's/ a concern." Matt's tone is casual-flip, though there's an inward twinge -- << :(! >> -- accompanying the words that doesn't show on his face. Lucien exhales a huff of breath. Maybe a laugh. He glances to Matt's food again, and rests fingers lightly on the other man's wrist. "Parsley, pah. If you are going to be named an herb, be a good one. Basil. Cilantro. Rosemary. You cannot go wrong with those. Were your parents hippies? You got off lucky." Hive winces, slightly, frowning across the table. << It's New York. Everyone's an asshole. >> He downs the last of his hot dog, licking his fingers clean afterwards. "No wonder you're planty. Hippies. I can just see you. Dancing around a drum circle with a wreath of flowers around your neck. Home-grown. Can I call you Rosemary?" "No. You can't call me Rosemary." Jim is putting the business into his dirty fingers, licking them clean, "/Cilantro/, now, that's a badass sounding herb. Think of it. /Cilantro/, Private Eye. Fuck yeah." He's slovenly wiping off hands and face at this point with a napkin, red-eyed and heavy shouldered - but the << ?? >> shot at Hive when he winces is very sharply awake. He jerks a chin at Matt-Lucien end, "So what would you two call yourselves?" "Matt," Matt replies, with quick curl of smile. His eyes close, hand turning upwards to snap his fingers shut against Lucien's, but after a moment he smiles a little wider. He picks up his spoon again, eating /actual/ bites with every evidence of enjoyment. "Mmm, I dunno. Tweak." "What, because of your meth addiction?" Lucien says, dry. "Because that's what I do to people's --" Matt waves his spoon in the general direction of Hive's head. "Shit. I don't think there's a good word for what you do." "Tweak," Lucien says, immediately. "I would hire a private eye named Cilantro. /Cil/ almost sounds like a name, even. There's every danger I might accidentally eat you instead, though. Tastiest herb there is." "C'mon, does this dude look like he'd make a tasty mouthful?" Hive jerks a thumb skeptially Jim-wards. "All back hair and leathery old-man face. That shit's only gourmet in Florida." << Nrgh, >> is the disgruntled BLUDGEON of reply that hammers back towards Jim. << Just the kid. The /nice/ one. Dying, I think. Doesn't look any older than me. >> "Yeah, good luck with /that/. This Cilantro's got a mean right hook." << Nrgh. >> Jim inwardly grunts back at the hammer, weathering it with a subtle clench of teeth. << That sucks. >> He jerks a chin at Lucien, "So what, that make /you/ Rosemary, then?" "I do not doubt it," Lucien replies, looking over Jim with a quiet amusement buried in his tone. "I would be wary in your line of work if you /couldn't/ throw a punch." "Rosemary's a name already," Matt says. "Girl's name." "So is Luci," Lucien answers, amusement growing. "I could be rosemary. Our garden /is/ pretty excellent." "You've got a garden? In Manhattan?" Hive looks impressed. "Shit, what's it you do, sign me the fuck up." Jim starts laughing. It's a grizzled smoker-laugh, and he does it while getting up to LEAVE this table. To go get some water. In his mind: Hive wearing a hot pink miniskirt and fishnets, standing at a street corner. In lipstick. Hahahahah. << Whore, >> is Matt's first thought, though aloud he says, "Lucien provides people with company, if they can afford it." "I'm a whore," Lucien says, with a quick smile. "I do have a garden. Small but pleasant. Your companion doesn't seem to think it's the right line of work for you." "Psh, everyone's getting fucked by someone." Hive wads up a napkin, chucking it at Jim's back as Jim gets up to leave. "Beats panicking each month when rent's due. Ignore Jim. He's just /fantasizing/ about me in fishnets." "More like giving myself PTSD," Jim grins in /pain/ while returning, chewing on his straw and drinking up all that Free Water from the soda fountain. If no one saw him add in some fruit punch, all the better. He loves him his sugar. "I'm sure you'd fine someone /real/ nice," he patronizes with his brows raised in /all/ concern for Hive's self esteem, then the smile falls off and he grumps at the table, "Think we're all gonna be gettin' fucked a lot more, the way things're going. Not gonna lie, I'd rather /do/ a little fucking and get paid for it." << Alright, fine. Y'know what? Let's blackmail the fucker. I'd normally sell my pictures to a third party, leave the dirty work to them. Can be damn dangerous. You ready for that? I could use that little /gift/ of yours. >> "I am sure he would," Lucien says, a note of laughter in his voice. "There are people out there with every kind of taste." "All kinds," Matt agrees wryly, and though there's a quick easy smile on his lips in his mind there's another image entirely; no fishnets or streetcorners, just large men and a much -- much! -- younger version of the boys. His fingers close /just/ a little tighter around Lucien's. "Everyone is fucking someone, too," Lucien adds, lightly. Less light: "I doubt you are wrong about what's coming, though. I've been reading the news too much --" "-- that's your problem," Matt cuts in, wry. "If you ignore it, it'll go away." Hive's expression pales, slightly, and he swallows hard, reaching for Jim's drink. To nab it. Have a sip. Possibly this sip is to compose himself enough to answer, a little wry, a little tired. "If only." He scrubs his knuckles against his cheek. << I hate danger, >> Hive answers just as wry. Just as tired. << And yet. >> SIP. He passes the cup back. << Let's do it. >> "If denial worked that way, I'd be out of a job," Jim comments, /frowning/ when Hive mooches off is drink. All the ash and soot in his throat from their foray inspires him to take a little pity and allow it. The dude looks pale. Wonder if he's okay OH YEAH I'LL ASK. << What. >> "Denial tooootally works that way," Matt answers Jim cheerfully, and, surprisingly just as cheerful is his mental addition, << if you're not going to be around to /see/ the future, anyway. >> Finished with his beans, he tucks the spoon into the cup, tucks the cup into Lucien's empty hot dog tray. "{Let's go home,}" is added in French to his brother. "{I've got to sleep.}" Lucien doesn't let go of Matt's hand. He just nods, slinging his jacket over an arm and picking up the trash in his other hand. "Well. Thank you for the company, gentlemen. I am totally going to take you up on the garden, if you were serious." He's sliding out of the bench, helping Matt get to his feet, too. Matt smiles bright. "Yeah, thanks. See you, maybe. Cilantro. Hive." "Hhhah." It's a slow and not too genuinely amused laugh, Hive's lips twisting upwards as Matt speaks. "Thanks for the dogs. Seriously." He tips his chin up in a nod to the departing brothers. << Sometimes, there's things I don't really want to know about people. Fuck, man, the world is sick. >> "Hey, you got my card," Jim cocks a rather openly challenging grin at Lucien, "Balls in your court, now, guy." He finishes off his drink while standing up again as well, semi-formal since the other two are rising. "Yeah, 'ppreciate it. Haven't eaten since yesterday. You got good taste, Tweak." He'll offer a hand to shake, if it looks like Matt has one to offer. His smile remains hard and firm, meeting solid eye contact. While thinking, much wearier. << Yeah. It is. Let's go make life hard for an asshole. >> Or sleep. But Jim seems more wired than snoozy. "He'll call you. He's kind of obsessive about his plants." Matt says this with confidence, reaching out to shake Jim's hand with equal confidence. His hand is kind of papery-dry, and a little too warm. "Of course. Until next time." Hands full, Lucien offers no handshake, letting his brother take care of formalities. He tips his head to the others, and then, steering towards a trashcan, tosses their trash before heading back out. Hive watches them go, and slumps slightly afterwards. He doesn't look particularly wired. He looks kind of drained as he scrubs palms against his eyes. It takes a moment before he slides out of the booth after Jim. "Yeah," is all he says, gruff. Jim doesn't offer much else to say - he leads them out the door, hands crammed into pockets and eyes squinted against the cold gusts of wind. Maybe he'll bring Hive back to his place. Show him his sweet photo collection. They can pick out who's gonna Get It. That or Hive might just crash on his couch. Jim will work on. Kids these days. Hive doesn't offer much else, either. He trudges after Jim in silence. Texting again. Not looking at the other man. Probably gearing up to crash /so hard/ on Jim's couch.
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