ArchivedLogs:Releaf

Releaf
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Matt
In Absentia	2017-03-28 "Hold my tea, yo, I'm doing /cancer/."
Location <NYC> {Workhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side
The wide entryway leads into a semicircular sitting area with plush modular chairs, sofas, and huge beanbags arranged around two low tables. The bright, open expanse of the house fans back and out from here, executed in stunning industrial style with extremely conservative usage of rough stone walls. Through a door on the right is a library boasting an eclectic but extensive collection of books, a cozy reading nook, as well as a state-of-the-art computer work station. Opposite this is a media room with a projector mounted overhead and a formidable sound system on all sides, the windows still admitting plenty of light when the blackout curtains are pulled back. Beyond the sitting area, toward the back of the house and separated from adjacent areas only by plentiful black granite counters, are a pair of kitchens, each stocked with their own appliances, cookware, servingware, and utensils. Adjoining the (vegan and kosher) kitchen on the right is a simple dining room with a long oval table and chairs designed to accommodate a range of body shapes. On the other side, tucked between the general-purpose kitchen and the media center, is a guest room and a full bath. At the center of the entire house is a cylindrical elevator shaft of steel and glass with two floating stairways coiled around it like an immense double helix. Both elevator and stairs lead down out of sight and up to a circular landing joined to the second storey wings by walkways that leave the space above the sitting area open. Above the kitchens is a sun-drenched split-level recess, the lower half a conservatory enclosed by glass and the upper half a rooftop garden. The whole is walled with glass and lets in copious quantities of natural light softened by lush greenery. Game night is still in the winding-up phase, with more people trickling in, mingling, and eating than gaming just yet. Matt has not been here more than ten minutes, but has already received six offers of drinks, three of food, and five of chairs. He's dressed in a dark green t-shirt with cartoon versions of the Hogwarts house mascots across the chest and old worn blue jeans, his smile as bright and boyish as ever. Though he is now comfortably seated in the conversation pit, tea and cupcake in hand, a small and constantly shifting swarm of people still hovers near him, gently solicitous. No one has said the word "cancer." Yoink! Matt's tea is snagged out of his hand -- mostly to avoid jostling it as Dusk subsequently imposes himself into the swarm, draping legs across the other man's lap and one intricately leaf-patterned wing across his back. Thus flopped over the couch and Matt alike (comfortable, casual, in cargo shorts and no shirt, a thin wrap top tucked into the waistband of his pants), he takes a swig of tea and tips the cup toward Matt. "So I know from sibling rivalry but you and your brother are on some next level shit. Like fuck, you got a stroke?" He passes the cup back to his friend. "Hold my tea, yo, I'm doing /cancer/." Matt emits a small, perfunctory noise of surprise as his tea is lifted away, but accepts Dusk's draping with equanimity. "Dying dramatically was /my/ shtick first." His tone is light, his smile lighter now, too. Perhaps it's only because Dusk is handing back his tea. "I could hardly let him upstage me there. Teach him to stick to his own brand of theatre." He tilts his head to nuzzle into Dusk's wing, grinning broad and mischievous. "Oh, and may I say your body art truly defies /be-leaf/?" "{Oh god} like I could sharding stop you. Terrible. Awful. Incorrigible." The top of Dusk's wing curls down, thumbclaw flicking lightly at Matt's head. "Though I gotta admit when it comes to hackneyed routines the painful puns have more charm than the whole dying thing. I'm kinda hoping that particular performance fizzles out before the grand finale. /Even/," he allows," somewhat magnanimously, "if it means we gotta put up with years more of shitty wordplay." "On the balance, wordplay is certainly my /preferred/ medium. It makes everyone else suffer /without/ killing my appetite." Matt sips his tea and smiles at Dusk sidelong over the brim of his mug. "But it is still a great /re-leaf/ to know you will accept a subpar performance on the dying front." This line of conversation has somewhat thinned out the general cloud of concern lingering nearby, though it never fully dissipates. "I'm a little miffed no one has yet offered me any actual boardgaming tonight. Do you suppose you might find it in yourself to cater to my whims on that front?" He levels his most imploring sad-eyed pout. Dusk's groan is long and rumbling, a faint edge of growl deep in his chest. He swings his legs down off of a Matt's, kind of languid as he levers himself to his feet (using the other man as support, wing pushing off against Matt's shoulder.) "Pouting like it's all about you, everyone's busy enjoying their food and nobody's wanted yet to step to the ass kicking that's about to be laid down. But if you're still feeling /competitive/, Flicker's setting up King of New York on the dining table. I had come to see if you were in the mood for a thrashing." "Delightful!" Matt's expression changes instantly to a dazzling smile, as though the glee had been lurking underneath the whole time. "I would /leaf/ such a challenge, especially if it comes with singing. And more snacks." So saying, he crams the rest of the cupcake into his mouth so that he might stretch out an arm to Dusk, fingers waggling imperiously for a hand up. "That was a /stretch/, dude." Dusk's grip on Matt's forearm is firm; he pulls the other man close. Briefly. Close enough for a quick retaliatory NIP at the side of his neck before releasing him. "Cupcakes are food, right?" He's not waiting for an answer, just setting off to procure snacks.