ArchivedLogs:Skin in the Game

Skin in the Game
Dramatis Personae Kyinha, Lucien
In Absentia	2017-08-27 "Oh, I have no intention of leaving it to faith."
Location <NYC> Omakase - East Village
The establishment is small and easily overlooked, marked solely by black calligraphy of its name in both English and Japanese on a white ground. Inside, the restaurant is appointed in tasteful but plain black and white with occasional judicious use of red, the decoration consisting primarily of sumi-e scrolls. There is a long bar where interested patrons may watch the sushi chefs at work, the curtained-off main kitchen behind that, and a few booths. Tucked at the very back is a washitsu whose plain rice-paper sliding doors conceal a startling departure from the austere appearance outside. The tatami and the low table ringed with zabuton are standard enough, if high quality, but the walls are adorned with colorful and evocative ukiyo-e prints depicting actors, warriors, courtesans, and monsters of Japanese legend. Hundreds of paper cranes dangle from the ceiling on strings of varying lengths, swaying gently in the faint breeze from the circulation vent. The table in that back room is presently only half-full, the appetizers cleared away for the first course, maguro and hirame nigiri brushed with tamari and a delicate yuzu kosho. Kyinha is sitting cross-legged at the table and decanting sake -- one-handed. He's wearing a pale blue linen wingtip collar shirt with a blue ombre cravat, and a gray herringbone modern dress kilt. His body is ringed with a faint but visible aura of fiery light that shifts with his motion. "In any case, whatever the news here says, the fight for the Renca reserve is far from over." His mouth quirks to one side. "It's just, this way of fighting -- it is not what I am used to, you see." Tucked on a cushion of his own, Lucien is watching the stream of sake pour down into the choko. One hand curls around his knee, his other resting fingertips lightly on the edge of the table. There is far less colour in his own outfit - black on black (on black), an impeccably tailored Nehru jacket with only the very subtlest of nearly-black deep red embroidery glimmering faintly when it catches the light; a crisp black dress shirt, black slacks. "The news here has barely covered it," he admits mildly, lips slightly compressing. His eyes lift from the cup, settling on Kyinha's face. "Direct action does tend to be a sight more effective if you can get people to pay it /attention/." Kyinha gives a short, sharp bark of laughter. "Well. I could get people to pay attention just by showing up, but not the kind of attention the movement wants or needs." He sets the tokkuri down and presents the choko to Lucien (he does /this/ with two hands, at least). "No, 'a Voz da Varzea' is dead. Now I work the media, the politicians, the courts." He gives a small shrug, his expression unreadable in the near-featureless black of his face. "I do not disdain doing so, but it definitely has a learning curve." His smile is thin, backlit to eerie effect by a bright yellow-white glow from behind his teeth. "At any rate, with the fall term coming up, I see a lot of conference calls in my future." "Obrigado." Lucien takes the small cup with a slight nod, fingertips brushing lightly against Kyinha's in the exchange; the touch comes with a subtle whisper of pleasure, a barely-there uptick of happy comfort. He picks up the tokkuri after to pour a cup out for Kyinha, humming quietly as the other man talks. "A shame, in some ways. Yours is a powerful voice. But knowing where it is best leveraged is a skill as well." He offers the other choko out with a small twist of wry smile. "I cannot say I envy you that. I've been reading up a bit on this fight and you --" The small breath he draws in hesitates, a moment. "Well. You are well positioned for the long fight, at least in terms of resources." Kyinha's smile eases, a bit less rueful if no less demonic before it relaxes away. "I like to think, sometimes, that I miss my old role because of the good I did. More likely it is ego, or something like." But he does not seem very troubled by this, accepting his drink with a slight tip of his head and a "Merci." His fiery eyes fix on Lucien steadily. "It will be a slog, yes. But, as you say, I have the resources. I would like to use those better /here/ -- where also there are many fights need fighting." He lifts his choko (one-handed again) and salutes the other man. "Santé." Takes a generous sip out of the admittedly small cup. "Money is money, of course, but here I cannot use my old networks or my father's influence. Ah, no matter! One must always start /somewhere./" Though Lucien had accepted his cup with both hands, he lifts it now to Kyinha with one, lips curling up slightly before he sips from it. "Money is not nothing, to be sure. The rest of it -- it can be built." His green eyes meet Kyinha's fiery ones. "And there are, indeed, so many fights to be fought here. Have you an idea where you'd like /your/ energy to be spent?" "So very many," Kyinha agrees, setting down his cup. "Nearest to my heart, I think, is the very survival of my people here. The prospect of a future for my students and others like them without the fear of being imprisoned and tortured or outright exterminated. Though..." His luminous eyes narrow downward at the inner corners, the only visible indication of his frown. "...alas, that threat lies over quite a few other groups, as well." Lucien's eyes lower, long lashes half-shading them as he turns his gaze downward. He keeps hold of his sake, turning the cup slowly in long fingers. "My stakes are not quite the same as yours, but I admit some --" His smile is small, gentle, exceedingly brief, when he tips a fleeting glance back up. "-- Personal investment in that struggle as well. I've not near enough hubris to imagine I have the answers but my work has at least afforded me the opportunity -- on occasion -- to put a few words in some well-positioned ears." He draws out his next sip of sake, eyes closing the rest of the way. He sets his cup down, hand lifting to scuff the backs of his knuckles slowly against his cheekbone. "Most people," he says, softer, "see me to stop thinking about the world's stresses, for a time." The inner corners of Kyinha's eyes widen, now, though the lift of his eyebrows is not visible. "I do no suppose you mean the stage." He tips his head forward. "Whichever work you mean, I have every faith in your ability on this front. I may be a novice to this sort of ah.../intrigue/, but if you could ever benefit from financial backing, I would be glad to collaborate." He finally averts his eyes, though without visible pupils it's hard to say which of the prints on the wall behind Lucien he is studying. "Going home -- to my village, what remains of it -- has been a grim reminder to me of the price of failure. It is...difficult to set aside." Here the corners of his lip curve upward, if only faintly. "But I have faith in your abilities on /this/ front, too." "It will be a slog here, as well. I am certainly more than glad for what accomplices are willing to lend their strength to this fight." After this, a brief quiet. Lucien's eyes linger on Kyinha's face as the other man's shift away. There's a soft silken rustle of clothing as he leans slightly forward, one hand reaching to slip fingers under Kyinha's. The flutter of thrill -- joyful, enticing -- that accompanies his touch starts soft and subtle with the slight curl of his smile; shivers faintly higher with the dip of his head to brush a light kiss to the back of the other man's knuckles. "Oh, I have no intention of leaving it to faith."